#◟ ⠀ ⠀[⠀ pinned. ⠀]⠀⠀ ⠀* ⠀⠀⠀ i - i’m green and i’m - and i’m slimy!

[hamilton-here]

Hiii! Could you please make one with angst? But with a happy ending lol 😂 Lewis and reader are friends, she confesses to him, he rejects her and hurts her by making her see that "he would never be with her" (like dating other girls and such) but because he hasn't realized that deep down he also has feelings for her until he does. And he tries to win her back , hoping it's not too late. Please and thank you very much.

𝒯𝑜𝑜 𝐿𝒶𝓉𝑒, 𝑜𝓇 𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝒯𝒾𝓂𝑒

Authors Note: Hey everyone! I’m slowly getting these requests out, I’m trying my best. I hope you enjoy and are doing well. Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis rejects your love, until he realises too late he feels the same and fights to win you back.

Warnings: angst

Taglist: @piston-cup @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You’ve known Lewis for almost seven years now.

It started in the least likely of places backstage at a chaos drenched university charity fashion show. The corridor was a cluttered artery pulsing with frantic energy, half lit by flickering fluorescent bulbs and thick with the scent of hairspray, fabric glue and the adrenaline of young creatives desperate for their cue. It was narrow, lined with garment racks wobbling under the weight of sequinned gowns and clunky boots and half finished dreams stitched together with caffeine and ambition.

You were in your element as an half production assistant, half miracle worker, juggling a clipboard that had lost most of its pages to frantic hands, holding safety pins between your teeth, your ponytail crooked from the constant tug of motion. Your tote bag weighed down one shoulder, filled with lip balm, duct tape, portable phone chargers and a water bottle that had begun to sweat through the canvas. Chaos clung to you like glitter and somehow, you moved through it with practiced grace.

And then it happened. A thud against the plaster wall beside you. You turned, startled but unphased only to meet eyes with someone who looked like he had walked straight out of a high resolution billboard and directly into the wrong hallway.

Leather jacket. Dark jeans. That unmistakable halo of world weariness beneath carefully styled hair. He looked out of place not just geographically, like someone who had taken a wrong turn but like he had wandered into someone else’s life and wasn’t sure if he should knock or just walk in. And you knew the face. Everyone did.

Lewis Hamilton. The five-time world champion at the time. The man whose name was synonymous with speed, precision, and glossy magazine spreads. You remembered seeing him once on the cover of a sports editorial where they described his racing line as “poetry at 300 km/h.” But here, in that moment, his poetry looked a little crumpled.

The other volunteers froze mid-movement. One girl dropped a makeup brush. Another boy whispered “Oh my god” as if it were a hymn.

But you? You tilted your head and raised a brow. “You do know you’re standing directly under a sign that says ‘Green Room,’ right?”

He followed your gaze upward and when his eyes met the sign, he laughed something raw and unfiltered, like a note escaping a song that wasn’t rehearsed. It was a laugh that caught in his throat and spilled out too loud, surprising even himself.

“Well,” he managed between chuckles, “that’s mildly humiliating.” You smirked and handed him your water bottle without ceremony. “Maybe next time, stick to racetracks. The signage is less ironic.”

That was the start.

He followed you on Instagram that night. Sent a DM a few days later, simple and self deprecating - “Thanks for not treating me like Bigfoot.”

You replied - “Don’t flatter yourself. I treat all hallway stumblers equally.”

What followed wasn’t fireworks but more so quieter and slower. A gentle uncurling of two souls that didn’t need a catalyst, only time.

There were late night texts when the world outside blurred and all that remained were thoughts too heavy to carry alone. He sent voice notes at 3 a.m. of soft musings about insomnia and the pressure to always perform. Sometimes he’d talk about how the media made him feel like a puppet strung together with headlines and expectations.

You responded with voice notes of your own. Mundane, meandering, beautiful in their simplicity. You told him about your philosophy essay, your burnt toast, your opinion on whether cats secretly rule the world. Once, he said, “I love how you narrate even the boring parts. It’s like I’m sitting beside you, watching it happen.”

Slowly, you stitched yourselves into each other’s days.

He told you about the weight behind his wins how every trophy seemed to come with a thousand invisible bruises. The relentless politics within the team. The loneliness behind the roar of the crowd. You, in turn opened up about your own chaos. The heartbreak that had hollowed you out. The dread of deadlines. The ache of feeling like you’d never do anything that actually mattered.

Somehow, in the exchange, the loneliness didn’t disappear but it felt acknowledged. And that made it bearable.

He remembered everything. Your favourite mug which was the chipped one with stars on it. That you cried during thunderstorms, not out of fear, but because they made the world feel dramatically alive. That you hated coriander with the passion of a thousand poets. That you always lost the left earring, not the right.

When you messaged him that life was too loud, he showed up unannounced with pastries dusted in powdered sugar and a playlist titled “Inhale/Exhale.” You teased him for being dramatic and he shrugged like it was the most reasonable answer in the world. “You ground me. Let me be useful.”

You were there for the highest highs of the glittering red carpet events where he glowed under flashbulbs and you stood quietly to the side, clapping softly, half hidden and proud.

And the lowest lows. The injury that took him off the circuit for weeks. The loss of his beloved dog Coco.

He called you sobbing that night, grief stricken and unsure. You said nothing for the longest time, letting him cry into the silence, the sound of his broken heart fill the spaces between your breaths. He finally whispered, “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

Another time, after a week that left you threadbare with anxiety, he texted you two words: “Come outside.” And so you did.

He was parked across the street in a sleek black car that hummed like it had secrets. Inside, there was takeout and a blanket bundled in the backseat. He didn’t speak when you climbed in. Just pressed play on an old playlist and drove aimlessly as the stars blinked awake outside the windows. “This is the quiet you needed,” he murmured.

There were holidays that felt like borrowed pages from someone else’s diary.

Morocco - where the air smelled like orange blossoms and his bartering in markets was part theatrical performance, part genuine delight. You laughed so hard, your ribs ached.

Santorini - sunburned and stubborn, you grimaced as he gently applied aloe vera, scolding you the entire time. “For someone so brilliant,” he muttered, “you’re alarmingly bad at sunscreen.”

Iceland - fireplace crackling, the snow whispering outside. He curled beside you, legs tangled under a fleece throw, voice quiet and unsure. “I think this is the happiest I’ve been in months.”

And always the inside jokes. A shared glance that said everything. A nickname no one else understood. A secret language encoded in touch and tone, one that turned chaotic airports and crowded events into quiet fortresses of familiarity.

Photographers caught glimpses of a hand resting gently on your shoulder, your laughter tilted toward him, matching sneakers that told a story only you two knew. Comment sections overflowed with speculation.

You brushed it off, casually. “Just friends,” you’d quip in interviews, lips curved in a smile that danced on the edge of ambiguity.

“Best friends,” he once corrected during a Q&A, his gaze flickering toward you for just a second longer than it needed to. “She keeps me sane.”

But slowly, quietly, something shifted.

Not in a sudden swell of confession. Not in declarations beneath fireworks. But in the way your hand lingered on his shoulder a beat too long. In the way he watched you when you spoke, like each word rearranged something inside him. Or the sigh he let out when you laughed.

And in the silence, even that started to feel like love.

You don’t know when the crush started. You’ve retraced the timeline more times than you’d admit not because you think you’ll find an answer but because part of you wants to believe there is one. A clean moment. A sharp memory. Something you can hold up and say "Here. This is where it happened."

But love, or whatever this is, never introduced itself with fanfare. It crept in the way fog rises over water slow, deliberate and disguised as something ordinary.

Maybe it was the nights he stayed on the phone until you drifted off, his voice softening with each sentence, words unraveling into warm nonsense. Just syllables to fill the space between your breath and sleep, so the silence wouldn’t tip you into the places where fear waited. You never asked him to stay, not really. He just did. Even when he had early meetings, even when his own thoughts were tangled.

Or maybe it was the way his texts always arrived at precisely the moment when your insides clenched with loneliness. Not five minutes before. Not ten after. Right then. When the air around you was too still, too silent, and everything felt like it had slipped one inch further from your grasp. You never told him how perfectly timed he was. You just smiled at the screen and breathed again.

It could’ve been the small things like the way he waited to order food until you arrived, regardless of how ravenous he was. His menu untouched, glass of water half empty, eyes lazily scanning the entrance like he wasn’t looking for you but everything else was meaningless noise until you walked in. And when you did? The way his expression softened not lit up like the sun, but gentled like dusk.

That kind of attention is its own form of gravity.

And maybe you noticed how often he did that, waited. He waited for you to speak first when your words were slow to arrive. Waited for you to laugh when the joke was yours to finish. Waited for you to decide what movie, what drink, what path to take. He built a rhythm around you, subtle and unquestioning, like his choices bent toward your comfort.

Still, none of those moments came with certainty. There was no siren call. No line drawn in the sand. The shift was quiet. Uneventful. You never even heard it arrive only felt it once it had soaked into your bones.

One moment you were his closest friend.

The one who could tell from a single sigh whether he’d had a good day or a devastating one. The person who knew the way he curled into himself when he was overwhelmed, the pattern his foot tapped when he was fighting nerves, the exact phrasing he used when something truly mattered. You knew which days needed silence and which needed the comfort of your voice. You were the one he texted, the one he called, the one he trusted.

And then something changed.

You started watching him differently.

Not with wide eyes or flushed cheeks that would have been simple, almost sweet. This was harder. It was the kind of looking that cracked quietly. You noticed the details that never used to ache. The way he tilted his head when he smiled at someone else. How he leaned in when a woman spoke with confidence. How his gaze lingered just long enough to make your stomach twist.

You waited for your name to show up on his screen and pretended it didn’t hurt when someone else’s did.

You tried not to care. Honestly. You told yourself it was just friendship. That jealousy was an overreaction. You even laughed about it with your friend once and, called it "annoying little feelings," like they were hiccups in your heart.

But it wasn’t funny when he praised another woman’s dress. Or when he reposted someone else’s selfie with heart emojis. Or when he turned toward the laughter that wasn’t yours.

And God, you knew him. You knew him like poetry. Not just the words but the rhythm, the pauses, the places he’d repeat himself. You knew his light and his shadow. And the tragedy was by knowing him, you fell in love with every stanza. But he didn’t love you back. Not like that.

And that truth was not loud or dramatic but antagonising slow and cruel.

You were still the one he turned to after gruelling races. The one who caught him between exhaustion and adrenaline. The one who stayed on the line when he couldn’t talk, when he just needed presence. You listened to the fragments he couldn’t share with the world the fears he buried, the confusion, the bone deep weariness that sometimes clung even after victory.

You read his speeches before they made headlines. You edited out the self doubt hidden in parentheses. You made playlists for the long flights, ones that told stories through lyrics because you knew he needed comfort that didn’t sound like advice.

You taught him how to fold dumplings one rainy afternoon. The kind of day where nothing was pressing, nothing demanded urgency just steam, laughter and flour smudged on his forehead. He called it the best day he’d had in months. He said it like it was a revelation. You didn’t know how to reply.

Still, you weren’t the choice.

You watched women step into his orbit like they were born to be seen radiant, unbothered by the idea of being watched. They wore designer dresses like armour. They posed, smiled, kissed and posted. Their beauty was sharp, striking, effortless. And you? You hovered behind the camera. Never quite centre. Never quite framed.

“I don’t date friends,” he said once a throwaway line spoken between bites of slightly burnt toast, his eyes locked on his phone, scrolling through something he didn’t share with you. You laughed. You had to. “Well, lucky me. Barely tolerable at best.”

He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching. His thumb brushed yours when you reached for the butter knife. You felt that touch days later. Like an echo in your skin.

That night you couldn’t sleep. The sentence looped like static through your head, stealing the air from your lungs. I don’t date friends.

You stared at your ceiling, counting seconds, blinking back tears you refused to name. You wondered if he would ever turn to you with different eyes not as the trusted constant, but as someone he couldn’t stop thinking about.

You wondered if he knew how long you’d been standing in the doorway.

How long you’d been holding the weight of love with hands that had never once asked him to carry any of it.

And still...you stayed. Not because you were weak. But because leaving felt like cutting off the very heartbeat of your days. He was everywhere now, stitched into the margins of your life. And even if it never became more, you stayed because those moments however fleeting, were the most honest parts of your world.

Until that night, it was all manageable.

The longing was something you’d learned to carry in silence, like a melody you hummed alone in your room. You were familiar with it by the ache that curled in your chest when he smiled at someone else, the slight hitch in your breath when he leaned against you just a little too long, the way your hands tingled every time his fingers brushed yours. You had learned, over time, to mask the tremors with laughter, to stuff down the hope with practicality. You didn’t let yourself name it. Naming things gave them power.

But that night in Monaco something cracked.

There was no storm outside. No cinematic crescendo. Just the rhythm of two people sitting shoulder to shoulder on a hotel carpet at midnight, a mess of pizza boxes between them, wine breathing in half filled glasses and the lull of shared comfort that came with knowing someone too well.

His feet were bare. His hair flattened from sleep, sticking in soft tufts. He wore your favourite hoodie the oversized one you’d always steal during chilly evenings its sleeves pushed up just enough to show his wrists, delicate and bruised from leaning on the edge of the tub earlier as he washed the day off.

He was scrolling through TikTok, nose crinkled in delight at a clip of a dog dressed like a dinosaur. His laughter clear and careless bubbled in your chest like champagne. You were watching him again, the way you always did when he wasn’t looking. The line of his jaw, the unguarded softness of his profile, how he curled slightly inward when he was truly relaxed.

And the feeling surged. Not gently, not like it had before. This time, it punched through you violently. A need, raw and irrepressible. A truth that had festered and bloomed and could no longer be contained.

“I need to tell you something,” you said. Your voice was hoarse. Quiet. You weren’t even sure he heard you until he turned, half laugh still lingering on his lips, curiosity flickering in his eyes. He expected something small. Another secret in your constellation of shared confessions. A childhood story. A half-remembered dream.

“What’s up?” he said, still smiling, still waiting for the familiar.

But your heart was thudding so loudly now you could feel it in your throat, in your ears, in the spaces between your ribs. You swore he could hear it. You were drowning in it.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

And then everything fell silent.

Not the dramatic kind you see in movies, with orchestral tension and gasps - no, this silence was worse. This was complete stillness. The kind that feels like time itself has stopped breathing. That slips under the skin and makes every cell wait.

His laugh faded in stages. First his eyes dimmed, then his lips stilled, then his hand the one holding the phone slowly dropped onto his knee like gravity had decided to intervene. You watched it happen. Watched the joy drain. Watched the moment change from light to shadow.

He didn’t speak right away. Instead, his gaze dropped to the floor. Like the weight of what you’d said had become too much to look at directly. And then, finally, barely above a whisper “Love…” He said it like a warning. Like a quiet plea against something neither of you could take back.

“Don’t.” Your breath snagged in your chest. The air tasted sour. Your voice came out shaking, a bare thread. “Don’t what?”

His eyes lifted. But they didn’t meet yours fully. Just brushed past, like the truth in your gaze was too bright. “Don’t ruin this,” he said. And that, those words were the ones that shattered you. Because they weren’t said with cruelty. They weren’t sharp, or angry, or dismissive. They were spoken with fear. With hesitation. With finality.

They sounded like goodbye.

“So you don’t feel the same?” you asked, teeth clenched against the tremble.

He met your gaze then fully, finally and what you saw wasn’t love. It was pity. Small. Devastating. Glistening like tears that hadn’t fallen yet.

“I love you,” he said, and each syllable cut. “Of course I do. You’re my home.”

“But not like that,” you replied. The words burned as they left you. Like ash on your tongue.

He winced, like they hurt him too. “I never meant for you to feel this way.”

“And that doesn’t make it hurt less.”

He reached out, instinctively. His fingers twitched they always did, even when he didn’t know what to do with them. But halfway, he stopped. Paused. Let his hand fall into his lap. Trembling. Useless.

“I don’t know who I am without you,” he murmured, voice cracking. “You’re my best friend.” You nodded, swallowing hard, trying to stay upright in a moment that felt like drowning. “Then why do I feel invisible right now?”

He didn’t have an answer.

And that silence…that silence screamed louder than anything he could’ve said.

You stood slowly. Every movement felt like it required permission. Your hands shook. Your knees barely held. The room had grown impossibly small with the ceiling pressing downward, walls inching in. You were suffocating in a space you’d once called safe. The pizza was still warm. The wine still breathable. His hoodie still smelled like cinnamon and sea spray.

But it was all meaningless now. Props in a scene that had ended.

You walked out. He didn’t call your name. He didn’t follow. And that was the part that splintered your soul into pieces you weren’t sure would ever fit together again.

Because somewhere deep down in the parts you didn’t show, in the places where hope still whispered you had always believed he would. Believed that one day, love would wake up in him like a tide, sudden and unstoppable. You believed that when it mattered, when the moment finally came he’d choose you. But he didn’t. He stayed behind. Silent. Still.

You sat in the taxi, fingers clenched against your thighs, staring out at the ocean with your vision blurred not from tears, you told yourself. Just wind. Just movement. Just exhaustion. The driver asked your destination. You answered automatically, voice hollow.

Behind you, a room still held the echo of laughter. Of long nights and inside jokes. Of everything that had felt so real until it wasn’t. And in its centre sat the boy you loved.

Not reaching. Not following. Just silent.

The days after weren’t dramatic.

There were no slammed doors. No shattered mugs on the kitchen tile. No tear streaked faces standing in rain just for the metaphor. There were no crying fits that made your chest seize and hiccup none of that cinematic release.

Instead, there was quiet.

A quiet that felt like a blanket laid over everything. Thick. Suffocating. Damp with meaning. It settled over your shoulders and in the folds of your routine made the air feel heavier, made time crawl. You would walk into rooms and forget why you’d entered. You’d make tea and let it go cold beside you, untouched. You’d open your messages and then shut the phone off again, heart thudding for no good reason.

This was heartbreak without spectacle, a type of grief masquerading as stillness.

You didn’t cry not in the way people expected. Not the way you’d done after past breakups, when tears came with guttural sound and trembling fingers. No, this pain was quieter. Meaner. It came in waves so gentle you almost didn’t notice you were sinking.

Mornings were the worst. You’d wake up and, for three cruel seconds, everything was fine. The sunlight hit the wall the same way. The air tasted of the usual. Your limbs stretched like they always did, no tremor, no ache.

Then memory arrived. And it didn’t crash - it crept. Slipped into your mind like a whisper: he doesn’t love you back. Your stomach would turn. Your lungs would stutter. And you’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how you were supposed to be a person today.

You stopped answering his calls. Not because you wanted to punish him, God it was never about punishment. You wanted to preserve what was left of yourself. Because hearing his voice felt like standing barefoot on broken glass. He kept calling, kept leaving voicemails that sounded too soft, too sweet. That tilt in his voice reserved only for you the one he’d use when asking if you’d eaten, or if you’d slept well, or if you wanted to come over just to sit.

But you couldn’t do it anymore. You couldn’t sit in that hollow place where he loved you like a friend and you loved him like oxygen. You let his calls ring. Let his messages sit unopened. Let the distance bloom like bruises.

You muted his stories. His posts. Didn’t unfollow that felt too loud, too final, like slamming a door you weren’t ready to close. But you removed him from your daily view. Hid him from the places where he had existed like background music. Because each photo felt like a betrayal. Like you were witnessing a new version of him one that had already started forgetting you.

He was still beautiful. Still radiant and magnetic and soft around the edges where your fingers used to trace.

But now he was laughing with other people. Holding champagne flutes. Draped in designer jackets beside women who didn’t know the way he hummed when anxious. Who didn’t know the lullabies he used to whisper to calm your racing heart.

You buried yourself in work. Built a fortress out of calendars, bullet points, spreadsheets. You breathed in productivity like oxygen like it might fill the places in your chest he had hollowed out. You told yourself if you stayed busy, the pain would forget to arrive. You threw yourself into meetings, into errands, into long commutes with loud music blasting in your ears just to drown out the thoughts.

Coworkers asked if you were okay. You smiled. Said, “I’m just tired.” They nodded. Didn’t press. No one wanted the truth. No one was prepared to hear: “He didn’t choose me.” “I told him I loved him, and he didn’t want me.” “I feel like I’m living in my own shadow.” So you stayed quiet.

You tried yoga. Journaling. Deleting every playlist you’d ever made for him. You threw away the hoodie he left in your car after winter drinks two years ago. You burned a candle that smelled like the cologne he used to wear hoping maybe the scent would leave your system if you forced it to vanish.

You deleted your camera roll. Unfavourited his number. Scrubbed the evidence of him from your digital life.

But Lewis was everywhere. Not just the person who broke your heart, he was an icon. A headline. A story the world wanted to keep reading. And you? You couldn’t escape the plot.

You’d open your phone and there he was smiling under golden light, next to a woman who glowed like she was forged from sunlight. Her hand on his shoulder. Her laugh in his ear. Her world colliding with his like you once dreamed yours might. Yacht parties. Fashion weeks. A Monaco gala with someone whose name sounded like silk.

“Lewis Hamilton Spotted With…” Every notification felt like a slap. Every caption like acid poured on a wound still fresh. Because he was smiling. Laughing. Thriving.

And you were unraveling in silence.

You watched women orbit him like planets whole and dazzling and unbothered. You watched him become someone you didn’t recognise. Someone who posed for cameras with eyes that didn’t search for you in the crowd anymore. Someone who had learned to live without your voice guiding him through dark days.

And somehow, that was the worst part. Not that he moved on. But that he didn’t even need to look back.

You weren’t the pause in his step. You weren’t the person he remembered while sipping wine alone. You had been everything and now you were nothing.

And the world indifferent and cruel kept posting about him. Kept praising him and showing you how easy it was for him to shine without you.

You’d close your phone and cry silently, the kind of crying that didn’t stain your cheeks but dulled your soul. Or curled up beneath heavy blankets and counted the stars on your ceiling, wondering how you became a ghost in your own life.

You stopped wearing the perfume he liked. Stopped ordering his favourite sushi. Stopped humming the song that played during that rainy night when he danced with you in the kitchen.

And you waited for the ache to end. But it didn’t. Because forgetting him wasn’t the challenge. Accepting that he had already forgotten you that was the knife in your ribs.

So when your best friend said, “Let’s go out,” you didn’t hesitate.

You were crumbling, slowly, subtly and the invitation felt like a rope thrown into deep water. You didn’t expect it to save you. But you needed to reach for something. Something that wasn’t his name on your screen or his voice in your memory. It didn’t taste like unanswered questions or smell like the sweater you still hadn’t thrown away.

You weren’t sleeping well. You weren’t eating much, either. You’d reread the same text thread twice a day without knowing why. You’d catch yourself writing messages you never sent. Your heart was growing quieter but heavier. Like a stone tied to silence.

You knew going out wouldn’t fix anything not the hollow chest, not the ache in your throat, not the way every silence still felt shaped like him. But you didn’t go because you believed in healing. You went because you needed proof. Proof that you could still be wanted. That you could still be looked at with something like interest and not heartbreak. That even if he didn’t choose you, maybe someone else would.

You stood in front of your closet and stared at the dress.

The black one. The one that had hung untouched for months like it was waiting for a version of you who didn’t flinch when someone said his name. It was sleek, unforgiving, cut close to the body hugging hips you hadn’t dared to show and dipping low enough in the back to make you feel almost brave. You hadn’t worn it because it felt like armour. And you hadn’t felt strong enough to carry the weight of pretending.

It whispered to you. That dress. Like it remembered what you used to be before the ache. Before the wine-soaked nights of wondering. You held it in your hands and felt your ribs ache.

But tonight, you put it on.

Pulled your hair into a smooth high ponytail, glossy and sharp, like a blade down your spine. You lined your eyes with something bolder than usual, smoked just enough to suggest mystery without collapse. The mascara layered heavier than necessary. The blush sat high on your cheekbones like a challenge. And the lipstick red. Not soft berry, not shy pink. But red like rebellion. Red like warpaint. Red like you were daring the world to see you and dare to forget. The heels clicked against the floor like punctuation. Sharp, unapologetic. You grabbed your clutch and locked the door behind you like you were walking away from a version of yourself that begged.

In the mirror, you whispered, “Just for tonight, don’t bleed.” It was shaky. Hollow. But it was the closest you’d come to a vow since Monaco.

The bar was packed.

Neon signs blurred into violet and gold against the windows. Music pulsed beneath everything, a heartbeat you could borrow when yours felt inconsistent. The air smelled like spiced rum and anticipation. Laughter spilled from one corner, and a group of strangers danced like they weren’t carrying anything heavy.

You walked in behind your friend, one heel before the other, chin high, shoulders back - the practiced performance of someone who had never had their ribs cracked open for love.

You made it ten minutes before someone noticed. He was tall. Smiling. Clean-cut. His shirt was a little too tight across the chest, his cologne a little too eager but his gaze? His gaze was kind. Curious. Safe. He had the look of someone who wouldn’t dig too deep but would hold the surface carefully. He leaned toward you at the bar with practiced charm, offering a drink in one hand and some breezy pickup line in the other, the kind you’d normally dismiss with a raised brow and a polite smile. But tonight, you didn’t say no.

You nodded. You smiled. You let his gaze wash over your frame like paint over canvas. You laughed not a real laugh, but a well placed one, angled just enough to suggest openness. You rested your hand on his forearm, fingers light, nails tapping absently. Tilted your head. Let your bare shoulder catch the light.

You weren’t there to flirt. You were there to feel something that didn’t feel like drowning.

And halfway through pretending, you felt it the shift. That electricity in your spine.

That chill that slides down your back when the air changes. You turned. And there across the room, standing amid the blur of strangers and the hum of synthetic bass was him.

Lewis. Dressed in black. Collar sharp against his throat. A single chain glinting just beneath the neckline. His glass forgotten in one hand. The other dropped loose by his side, as if it had just failed him.

His shoulders squared. But stiff. His eyes locked on yours.

And his expression? Shattered. It wasn't rage, jealousy or recognition. Like he was seeing you for the very first time, and the sight burned. Like something inside him had cracked violently and without permission.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. The people around him faded into static. He looked at you like memory.

You could feel your pulse behind your ears. In your throat. In your knees.And in that moment, you leaned closer to the stranger beside you intentionally.

Let your hand glide up his arm, nails brushing skin. Let your lips part in something that looked like desire but was really a shield. You angled your body in such a way that your silhouette curved in full view, the hem of your dress skimming thigh, your shoulder rolling back like you were relaxed. Like you were radiant. You fake laughed at something meaningless. Swirled your drink in its glass like it was a spell.

And you locked eyes with Lewis. Held his stare. Let him see it all the dress, the makeup, the smile that didn’t reach your eyes. Let him see you as someone that didn’t need his silence. That didn’t need his love anymore.You were fire and frost and fury.

You were saying without words - You lost me. And now you get to watch me go.

And when you finally turned away, hiding the tremble in your fingers, forcing a sip of the watered-down cocktail you glanced back.

He was gone. Shattering you all over again.

Because even then seeing you with someone else, glowing like grief hadn’t lived inside your chest for months he still didn’t fight. Still didn’t say “wait.” Still didn’t ask if you were okay. You turned back to the stranger, nodded at his question, let him believe he had your attention. But your thoughts were loud. Violent. Drenched in ache.

You weren’t sure if you wanted Lewis to come back…or if you wanted to forget you ever knew him.

Because both options felt like knives. And you were tired of bleeding quietly.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Lewis’s POV:

He had told himself he was doing the right thing.

It had been rehearsed in the back of his mind for weeks, layered with rationalisation, wrapped in logic so tightly he almost believed it. Safe. Clean. Practical. The kind of reasoning that made sense in theory. But none of it accounted for the hollow ache that crept in afterward. None of it prepared him for the silence.

When you said, I think I’m in love with you, the words didn’t just echo they detonated. They landed like a rock to his chest, splitting something brittle wide open. He remembered the way your voice trembled, how your fingers curled at your sides, how you hadn’t looked away when you said it. You were vulnerable in a way he’d never seen you before, and instead of reaching for you, he built a wall.

He’d told you it wasn’t like that. That you were too important. That he couldn’t risk destroying the one thing in his life that felt real. And when you looked at him eyes full of quiet disbelief, of waiting for him to take it back he said, “Don’t.” Just one word. A single syllable meant to protect you, but it shattered you instead.

And he hated himself for that. Still does.

He told everyone else it wasn’t the right time. That he didn’t want to ruin the friendship. That love complicates things, and some relationships were better preserved untouched. He told you he couldn’t give you what you deserved. That he wasn’t good at love. That he didn’t want you to waste your heart on someone who’d only disappoint you.

He said all those things like armour. But they weren’t shields. They were exits. And he took one. The truth the one he couldn’t say then and can barely admit now was simple and devastating: he was terrified.

Because you weren’t some passing thing. You weren’t someone he’d forget in three months. You weren’t another girl who liked the way he smiled on magazine covers. You were you. The one who knew his tea order down to the extra honey. The one who noticed the small silence he fell into after talking to his dad. The one who always texted good luck five minutes before a race, even when the whole world already assumed he’d win.

You were the person who saw him before the lights. Before the trophies. Before the curated grin.

And the thought of touching that of risking the softness between you made his chest seize. If he hurt you, if he let you close and then wrecked it, there would be no undoing it. No way back to the version of life where your voice filled the cracks of his nights and your presence made everything feel possible.

So he made what felt like the responsible choice. He let you go. And he called it noble, even when it tore him apart.

He leaned into the noise again. Into the parties. The appearances. The photos taken beneath glowing chandeliers next to people whose names he barely remembered. The camera flashes welcomed him like an old habit. The handshakes were automatic. The charm, muscle memory.

But none of it felt good.

He stood next to women whose laughter felt engineered. Whose compliments tasted like champagne and clung like perfume. He smiled. He nodded. He kissed cheeks and exchanged numbers. But none of them knew he still hummed when anxious. None of them knew how he blinked too quickly when overwhelmed. None of them noticed when his gaze drifted toward the exit at every event hoping. Waiting.For you.

Food didn’t taste the same. Music felt background instead of immersive. Even driving the place where his thoughts used to run free felt heavy. The silence wasn’t tranquil anymore. It was suffocating. He stopped listening to your favourite playlists because they made his throat tighten. He stopped opening voice notes because they reminded him of all the ones you used to send. He started playing podcasts he didn’t care about just to keep his mind busy. Just to fill space.

He picked up his phone dozens of times. Half written messages. Voice notes that ended before they began. Memes you’d find hilarious the kind he used to send at 3 a.m. just to make you laugh the next morning. But now he didn’t know if you’d even respond.

And then there was that unread message. The one that hadn’t changed in days.

The read receipt lingered like a bruise.

He stared at it. Over and over. Wondering if he’d lost you for good.

He told himself you were healing. That maybe you were better off this way. That he had given you space and time and dignity. That his silence was a favour.

But slowly, the cracks began to show.

And then came the moment.

He was in London, surrounded by friends, laughter, shallow conversation. The rooftop bar was one you used to love. Fairy lights strung above wood paneling. Rosemary-scented cocktails. Jazz playing low and warm in the background. You’d once called the playlist “accidentally perfect” and made him promise to dance if they ever played Nina Simone.

He sat across from a woman he barely knew her laugh too practiced, her stories too polished. She spoke about Ibiza and yachts and men who built careers out of wine importing. He nodded. He smiled. He performed. Until he looked up. And everything dropped.

You were there.

Not across the world. Not buried in silence. But right there radiant in a way that made his breath forget its rhythm.

Your hair was tucked behind one ear. You wore that soft wrap dress you always paired with boots. You were laughing and it hit him like a slap. He hadn’t heard that sound in weeks. That laugh had always been his favourite song, the one he kept on repeat during sleepless nights.

He swore the world stopped. And then he saw him. The guy beside you. Confident. Relaxed. Just close enough to make Lewis’s stomach turn. And worse you weren’t turning away. You were leaning in.

He froze. Everything inside him short circuited.

Someone else was making you laugh like that. Someone else was being let in. Someone else was witnessing the version of you that used to be his.

All the lies he’d told himself. All the cowardice disguised as protection. All the guilt dressed as grace. You weren’t waiting for him anymore. And he was the one who made that true.

That night, the bed felt foreign. His hands shook. The room pulsed with every memory. And when he whispered your name into the dark, no answer came.

It was only then alone, blanketed in remorse, staring at the place you used to lie beside him that he finally said it aloud. I’m in love with her.And I let her go not don’t know if she’ll ever let me back in.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

He shows up at your flat two days later.

No text. No warning. No heads-up through mutual friends or nervous check-ins. Just the quiet, deliberate thud of knuckles against your door slow and hesitant, like someone trying not to disturb a haunted house. You freeze mid-step in the hallway, fresh from the shower, wrapped in a robe that clings damply to your skin, towel twisted loosely around your wet hair, dripping dark circles onto your shoulders.

Your phone is still in your hand. Heart pounding. Breath thinned.

You already know who it is.

You feel it before you see it. Like a shift in gravity. Like the air recalibrating itself around one specific person.

And somehow, knowing doesn’t make it easier.

You press your palm flat to the wall, just for steadiness, just for a moment longer of pretending that silence is safety. Then you go to the door, fingers still damp against the cold metal of the handle, your chest tight and your pulse hammering like betrayal.

You open it. He’s there. Lewis.

Hood up. Eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Jaw taut with the weight of things unsaid. His face looks softer somehow, but not gentle fractured. His lips are dry, a faint bruise near his temple, his shoulders slumped as though he hasn’t slept since Monaco. The vulnerability is jarring. There’s no PR gloss, no effortless charm, no camera-ready smile. Just a man who looks like he left part of himself behind and finally came to find it.

“You can’t just show up like this,” you say, voice low and sharper than you intended. It’s not anger, exactly. But it’s not not anger either. It’s the kind of sting that comes when old wounds are pressed too suddenly.

“I know.” His voice is hoarse, catching. “I just I didn’t know what else to do.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, not for warmth but for protection. The robe doesn’t help. Nothing could. “Didn’t we already do this?” you ask. It comes out tired. Burnt at the edges.

He drags a hand down his face, the rasp of palm against stubble too loud in the silence. “I was wrong.” You blink. You don’t trust it. “About what?”

He looks at you then. And for once, he doesn’t hide. His eyes shimmer slightly, bloodshot, rimmed with regret so deep it’s almost physical. “About everything,” he says. “About how I feel. About what I thought I could live without. About what I thought was safe.”

You let out a laugh, brittle and slicing. It tastes like irony. “Took you long enough.” He takes a half step closer, then stops. As if the floor itself has become fragile between you. “I saw you,” he says. “At the bar. With him.” You lean against the doorframe, letting your weight carry the indifference you’re trying to conjure. “So?”

“I hated it.” His jaw clenches, his fists curl at his sides. “I hated seeing you with someone else. I hated how beautiful you looked and that someone else got to be the reason. I hated that I wasn’t beside you. That I hadn’t earned the right anymore.”

He steps forward again. More desperate now. “I’ve been in love with you for longer than I even knew. Since the night we got stuck in Portugal and shared a blanket in that overpriced hotel room. Since the day you made boxed pancakes and poured syrup over them like it would fix everything. Since you laughed at my worst jokes and said my silence made you feel safe.”

You shake your head. Slowly. The ache in your chest is sharp, pointed.

“Scared of what?” you ask.

He swallows hard. The words nearly get stuck on the way out. “Of ruining it. Of being selfish. Of hurting you. Of choosing love and then not being enough for it.” You don’t respond immediately. Because everything feels heavy again. Every word, every breath. You’re not sure if it’s love or just history pulling you toward him. You’re not sure if heartbreak always deserves a second chance.

“You did lose me,” you whisper.

And Lewis he closes his eyes like you’ve sliced something in him open. “I know,” he says. His voice drops, nearly a whisper. “I watched you spiral and I kept pretending I didn’t notice. I kept telling myself silence was protection. That if I didn’t speak, I couldn’t ruin anything. But I did. I ruined everything. And it was my silence that made you feel invisible. I thought I was preserving the friendship. But I was just a coward.”

You shift slightly, robe damp against your skin, fingers curled into your side. “Safer for who?” you say. It lands like a challenge.

He doesn’t answer. He just stands there. Hands trembling. Breath caught. Looking at you like maybe, just maybe, forgiveness is possible. “I’ll never forgive myself,” he says. “But if there’s even one corner of your heart that still remembers what we were what we could be I swear I will spend every minute trying. I’ll rebuild. I’ll stay. I’ll do the work. I’ll become

You take a slow breath.Then quieter than you mean to “Say it again.”

He takes a breath like he’s steadying himself, as if every word he’s about to speak carries the weight of all the silences between you. His hands lift, slow and trembling and find their way to your face cautious, reverent. Not the touch of someone claiming you, but someone asking, again, gently, to be let in. His thumbs skim your cheekbones, familiar yet hesitant, like he’s memorizing the contours all over again. His fingertips settle against your jawline, soft and lingering, a kind of prayer made tangible.

“I love you,” he says. It’s not loud. It’s not cinematic. It’s broken in places, but true in all the ways that matter. You close your eyes for a moment, letting it in like sunlight cracking through a storm. “I love you,” he says again. Stronger this time, as though he’s building something brick by brick with every syllable something sturdy enough to hold you both.

“I love you in ways I didn’t know how to explain,” he continues, voice cracking at the edges. “I love you more than I was ever brave enough to admit. And I don’t want to live another day pretending I don’t. I can’t.”

Your lips part, unsteady. Your chest is full not with breath, but with ache, with the weight of all the waiting, with the hope you tried so hard to starve out of yourself. You lean in first.

Your kiss isn’t fireworks. It isn’t loud or breathless or rushed. It’s slow. Full. The kind of kiss that lives in the marrow of your bones that says I forgive, I remember, I still want. His lips mold to yours like he’s catching up for every second he didn’t. His hand slides back into your hair, towel damp beneath his palm. The robe falls slightly from your shoulder, but neither of you move to fix it.

Because in this moment this precise, aching, beautiful now everything else stops mattering.

You kiss like two people who broke apart and are daring to try again. But in this situation you’re kissing him back not as the girl who waited in silence. Not as the woman who begged to be seen. But as someone finally chosen.

The weeks that follow are stitched together by patience and small, sacred gestures.

There are moments when your hands hesitate before reaching for him. Moments when he enters a room and you brace for the weight of the past to settle back in. Moments when you think this is too much, I’m too fractured, he’ll leave again. But Lewis doesn’t leave.

He notices everything.

The way your voice wavers when you ask if he’s going to the next press event. How you linger in doorways like you’re waiting for the goodbye. How sometimes, when he holds your hand, you grip tighter than necessary not because you're scared of losing him, but because you still don’t trust the universe to let you keep anything.

He shows up with soft apologies layered in action - almond croissants from the bakery you adore, even on days when his schedule is suffocating. Sticky notes taped to your fridge, your steering wheel, the back of your phone: You make everything brighter. You’re the best part of my day. Still choosing you. Every playlist sent with the subject line: Earned, not given.

He doesn’t ask for all of you. Just the pieces you’re willing to give back. Some nights he texts: Sleep well, even if you hate me a little today. You don’t reply. Not at first. Eventually, you send: I didn’t hate you. Then: I missed you too.

He’s different now.

He’s quieter when he’s near you, not withdrawn, just cautious. Tender in the way that people are when they realise they’re walking through a space where damage was once done. He still makes jokes during movie nights. He still teases you about your coffee order. He still steals your fries and insists he didn’t but there’s something softer in the way he moves, like he’s making sure you know this time, he’s not taking you for granted.

One night, when you’re curled up together, the lights low and your legs tangled like you never knew how to untangle in the first place, you whisper, “I almost forgot how it felt to be enough for you.”

He doesn’t speak right away. Just brushes your hair off your cheek, thumb lingering against the corner of your mouth, and replies in the softest voice you’ve ever heard, “You were always more than enough. I was just too scared to deserve it.”

You say nothing. Just burying your face into his chest, and he holds you like he’s keeping the pieces from falling again.

The healing isn’t linear. It never promised to be. Some mornings feel like the honeymoon phase they never got to have like something golden blooming across your skin. He’ll wake you with a soft kiss on the shoulder, tracing lazy shapes on your back while the kettle sings in the kitchen. His arms wrap around you like you’re gravity itself, drawing him into something anchored, something safe. You’ll laugh at inside jokes that only exist in the sacred language between the two of you, and in those still lit moments, it feels as if the world never cracked at all.

Other days are harder, shaped by memory and bruised silence. You’ll wake with ghosts clawing at your ribs not because you want to feel them, but because some pain lives in the muscle. You’ll hear his voice falter when he says something too close to what broke you. He’ll forget something small: an anniversary of an argument, the shape of a scar you’re not ready to joke about, the tone you use when you’re afraid. Your heart will flinch before you can stop it. And when someone mentions Monaco casually in passing, like it’s just another place you’ll leave the room so fast you don’t realise your hands are shaking until he catches one.

But he always follows. Not forcefully. Not with demands or questions. Just steady. He sits beside you in silence, his hand resting close to yours, never pressing. He waits not for forgiveness, but for trust to return on its own terms. And every time he whispers, “I’m still here,” you believe him a little more.

He reaches for your hand absentmindedly in traffic. Rubs soft circles on your knuckle during flights. Leaves a note in your suitcase every time you travel alone: Don’t forget how loved you are. And you never do.

One night, after a long day, you’re curled together under a tangle of blankets. Your cheek rests on his chest while he tells you a story you’ve heard so many times it’s practically a lullaby. You smile because you know how it ends. And just before sleep pulls you under, you whisper, “I almost forgot how safe this could feel.” He doesn’t respond right away. He brushes his lips gently across your temple, like a benediction, and murmurs, “You’re the only thing I’ve ever felt sure about.”

It’s not dramatic. It’s not extravagant. There are no fireworks. But there’s warmth. Quiet confidence. A devotion that doesn’t need grand gestures, just a coat left on your chair, a cup of tea brewed the way you like, a hand reaching for yours at 3 a.m. because I’m still here.

Because love didn’t return loudly. It crept in slowly. Stubborn. True.

Then again it was never supposed to be perfect. It was supposed to be earned but then again that’s how it is in a soft, fierce and unshakable way.

In the end, it’s always. Forever unfolding, just in time yours.

[simpsforwomen]

❦ 𝗗𝗮𝗱𝗱𝘆'𝘀 𝗚𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗚𝗶𝗿𝗹

✧ warnings: pure smut, aftercare, daddy kink, degradation, humiliation, fingering, magic cock, edging, denial, spanking, face slapping, choking, begging, bondage, spit kink, exhibitionism kink, reader is called 'puppy'

✧ pairing(s): dom!agent!Rio Vidal x fem!sub!reader

✧ summary: you're being punished for touching yourself and sending your girlfriend naughty pictures while she was at work.

✧ word count: 2.6k

✧ a/n: pure filth. requested by a friend. written in first person. i haven't posted in a while but wanted to try writing something new. longest fic i've written so far. any feedback is much appreciated.

☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎

The sun dips low, casting a warm glow through the large windows of Rio’s apartment. From the corner, my cat meows softly and her tarantula shifts in its tank. The air is filled with the soft rustle of leaves and the faint scent of blooming flowers, as the plants she loves so much thrives in the sunlight. The apartment is a cozy sanctuary of green, with potted ferns and ivy cascading down the walls.

I heard her before I saw her. Heels clicking down the hallway, the jingle of her keys, and that calm, deliberate sigh she always lets out as she enters the apartment. I’m leaning against the kitchen counter, bare skin pressing against the cool marble, wearing nothing but the collar she gave me and lacy black lingerie. My body tenses in anticipation.

The front door creaks open. And there she is—Agent Rio Vidal, in her perfectly tailored dress pants, suspenders still taut across her shoulders, and her crisp white shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease. Her hair is still pinned back from work, a few dark strands falling loose, framing that stern, knowing, and dangerous look.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Eyes only leaving me as she turns to shut the door. I think back to her reply to the pictures I sent.

Behave.

And I had tried. Really. I had.

She slides off her blazer and places it on the hook by the door. She walks over, slow and steady, eyes never leaving me.

“Tell me,” she says, loosening her suspenders, voice like velvet laced with warning. “Did you touch yourself while I was at work?”

I nod, meekly. She cocks her head.

“Use your words.”

“…Yes.”

Her eyes narrow as she leans in, her lips brushing against mine in a soft, teasing kiss. "And what else did you do during the day?" she murmurs, her voice barely audible, her breath hot against my skin. I can feel the heat of her body, the tension in her muscles as she presses against me.

I whimper, my body aching for more. "I... I sent you pictures," I manage to say, my voice breathless.

Rio pulls back, her eyes darkening with desire. "You did, didn't you?" she says, her voice a low growl. "You were a very bad girl today." Rio tsks, hooking her finger underneath my collar. “Such a desperate little thing,” she mutters, dragging her nails up my inner thighs, making me shiver. “Always so needy…”

Her hands grip my waist. I whimper, already soaked, already guilty. Before I could respond, she pulls on my collar harshly and spins me around, forcing me against the kitchen counter. I gasp, my body pressing against the cool surface, my heart pounding in my chest as she pulls down my panties and runs her fingers through my folds.

“Mmm,” she purrs. “So wet. Soaking your panties like a bitch in heat who can't control herself.” Her fingers slide inside me without warning, and I moan, bracing myself.

"But you know what happens to bad girls, don't you?" she whispers, her voice a mix of amusement and desire. "They get punished." She pulls her fingers out suddenly and I gasp when her palm meets my ass with a harsh smack!

“Bad girls don’t get to cum,” she says flatly, spanking me again. “You want to be a good puppy, don’t you?” 

“Yes, Daddy—please, I want to be good, I’ll be good—”

“Then count.”

Smack!

“One… thank you, Daddy.”

Smack!

“T-two… thank you…”

Smack!

“Three—nngh—I’ll be better, promise.”

Smack!

“Four… fuck—”

Suddenly, my arms were being stretched out in front of me, my wrists being bound by enchanted silk. I'm panting, already trembling from the sting of her last strike. My panties were bunched at my knees, my thighs sticky with want.

Another smack lands—harder, more deliberate. I cry out, the sound bouncing off the tile and windows.

“Six!” I moan instinctively, too distracted by the stunt she just pulled to properly keep count.

Silence.

Not hers. The room’s. Still. Heavy.

The hair on my neck stands up.

“No,” Rio says flatly behind me, “That was five.”

I blink, my heart dropping to my stomach.

“I—I thought I—”

Her hand grabs my hair instantly, tugging my head back with enough force to make me whimper.

“You thought?” she repeats, venom-soft. “Did I ask you to think?”

“N-no, Daddy…” I breathe.

“That’s right. I asked you to count. And you just skipped over a number like some dumb little mutt who can’t follow the simplest instruction.”

Her grip tightens.

“You want to be treated like a brainless fucktoy?” she asks, voice low, inches from my ear. “Because that’s exactly how I’ll use you if that’s what you’re begging for.”

I whimper, back arching involuntarily.

“I’m sorry, I’ll count right, I swear—please, I didn’t mean to—!”

“Shh.” She releases my hair and steps back. Her magic buzzes at my wrists—hotter now. Tighter.

“Start over,” she says firmly. “From one.”

I bite my lip, holding in a sob—my cheeks burning with shame and heat.

“Y-yes, Daddy…”

Her hand comes down hard across my ass.

“One,” I choke. “Thank you, Daddy…”

“That’s more like it,” she says, her voice smooth and cold. “Now keep going, and if you mess up again?”

She leans in close, whispering, “I’ll display you on the fucking balcony and the whole city will hear you moaning my name.”

My breath hitches.

And then the next slap lands.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Ten—I—I can’t focus, Daddy, I can’t—” I sob, my voice breaking.

Rio didn’t pause. She didn’t let up. Just kept spanking me, measured and cruel, letting each one sink in before delivering the next.

I don’t even remember most of them. Just flashes of pain, tears spilling freely down my cheeks as I tried to stay still, and her voice in my ear—

“Count, baby.”

“Seventeen… seventeen… I-I’m sorry, please—”

“Eighteen!” I whimper. “Thank you—fuck—thank you…”

“Nineteen… I—I need you so bad, please Daddy…”

And then—

“Twenty—fuck~”

My thighs tremble as I slump against the counter. My breath is ragged, my ass burning with every twitch, so red and raw. I can still feel the shape of her palm on me—every smack echoing through my muscles like a pulse. My knees feel like they might give out but I don’t dare move.

I sense her behind me. Calm. Controlled. Like she didn’t just spank me until I forgot how to count.

“You’re dripping,” Rio says, amused. “Such a fucking mess.”

I can’t respond—not properly. I just whimper. A needy one.

She runs her fingers through my folds, lazily dragging them through the slick that coats me.

“Soaked,” she hums. “Just from getting your ass beat like a disobedient puppy. You really are pathetic, huh?”

I nod. Shame heats my face—but it only makes the throbbing between my legs worse.

She hums again, then tilts my head up gently so that my eyes meet hers. “Color?” She asks softly, such a contrast from her harsh tone.

“Green.”

She holds my gaze, searching for any flicker of doubt. When she finds none, she grabs me by the collar and pulls me upright, dragging me out to the balcony. The night air kisses my skin, and the busy city hums three stories below. People walk past, oblivious to what is happening right above their heads.

I cling to the railing, trembling, and feel her body pressing against my back. If someone looks up—

“Is this what you want, slut?” she whispers in my ear, hand tangled in my hair. “For me to put you on display?” She yanks my head back, making my bra disappear with magic. “For them to see your pretty pussy being used until you're unable to walk for a week?”

I whimper—“Please…”—and she laughs, sliding two fingers inside me with ease. I let out a filthy moan as she fucks me, pumping her digits in and out while her thumb rubs over my clit in slow, torturous circles. Her other hand palms my breasts, rubbing and pinching at my sensitive nipples.

“Nngh… D-daddy~”

“Look at you—your needy little hole is leaking so desperately… You want Daddy’s cock that bad?”

I nod desperately. “Please… need you inside me Daddy—make me yours~” I moan shamelessly, too far gone to care who hears.

The look in her eyes shifts—simmering now, burning with hunger. She pulls out her fingers and yanks me back inside the apartment. She strips, making her clothes disappear with magic, then throws me onto the bed like a doll.

In seconds, I am strung tight, breathless, and my wrists are bound to the bedpost by her spellwork. I can feel the pulse of her magic humming around my thighs, locking them in place with enchanted silk.

She waves her hand between her legs and a shimmer of light crackles at her fingertips. It slowly forms into a thick, pulsing cock.

“Oh, baby…” she murmurs, climbing between my legs while stroking herself lazily. “You pathetic little thing, begging Daddy to fuck you dumb.”

“Daddy… too big~” I try, but she slaps my cheek just hard enough to make my breath hitch.

“Did I say you had permission to speak?” she says coolly, firmly wrapping her fingers around my throat. I whimper helplessly beneath her.

“Open.” I obey and she smirks, spitting into my mouth. “Swallow.” 

I do without hesitation.

“Good girl.”

She begins sliding her cock through my slit slowly, the head of it bumping against my clit. She never pushes in—just teasing, pressing, denying.

“You’re gonna take everything I give you,” she growls, tightening her grip on my throat. “And you’re not going to cum until I say so. Do you understand?”

I nod, whimpering desperately. The lack of oxygen making me lightheaded. She slaps me again.

“Words, bitch.”

“Yes, Daddy~”

She grabs her shaft and slowly guides herself into me, watching as my pussy swallows her cock inch by inch. She groans at the sight.

“It’s too big Daddy~” I whine. “I can't take it—it hurts…”

“I know you can baby. You like it, don’t you?” She moans at the feeling of my walls squeezing around her, milking her. “Your greedy little hole is taking me so well.”

She pushes her last few inches into me and bottoms me out, both of us moaning at the sensation.

“Ahhh~ nngh… so full…”

“You’re nothing but a hole for Daddy to use.” She drags herself out slowly and slams back into me with force. I tremble beneath her. “My pretty little fucktoy…”

The silk binding my wrists are soaked with sweat now. I can’t hide. Can’t do anything but take what she gives me—and beg for what she won’t.

“Who owns you?”

“You, Daddy!”

“That's right. And who does this pretty pussy belong to?”

“I—please!~”

Her hand comes down hard on my cheek.

“I asked you a fucking question slut.”

“You—fuck—It belongs to you!”

“Such. A. Dirty. Mouth.”

She punctuates each word with a deep thrust, hitting that sweet spongey spot inside me every time. With a flick of her hand, her magic begins to hum beneath my skin, hot and unforgiving. It curls low in my belly, coiling tighter with every roll of her hips, and every flick of her fingers over my swollen clit.

“Please!—”

“Please who?” She growls in my ear.

I’m so close I can’t think. Release is right there, like a wave about to crash—

And then it doesn’t.

It just… stops.

The pressure locks inside me, burning and unbearable. My muscles seize, my toes curl, and I cry out, voice cracking.

“Ngh—fuck! Please, Daddy please, I need to cum so bad!”

She laughs, a soft, low sound. I’m exactly where she wants me. Ruined, shaking, dripping. Nowhere close to getting what I want.

“Oh, baby,” she purrs, leaning down to tease my nipples with her tongue. “You thought I’d let you cum that easily?”

I sob, tossing my head into the pillows beneath me. “I—I can’t take it, I’m so close! Please Daddy, please let me~”

“Shh,” she coos, her hot breath ghosting against my skin. “You’ll cum when I say you can. Not when your dumb little body decides it’s ready.”

She starts moving again, slow and deliberate. My hips jolt up to meet hers instinctively.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, almost admiring. “Barely holding it together. Such a desperate puppy... so tight~”

I’m close to tears now, overwhelmed as the pressure builds inside me again, faster this time. My back arches and my lips part in a silent cry. I’m dangling over the edge, hands curling in the bindings, a moaning mess beneath her—

And again, her magic stops me.

A scream tears from my throat.

She smirks above me, eyes glowing with something dark and divine.

No matter how much I plead, her response always leads to that one cruel word.

“No.”

And every time, the need for release claws at me. Louder than thought, louder than reason. 

It wasn’t until I was crying and squirming beneath her that she finally, finally, released the spell.

“You've been such a good puppy for Daddy,” she whispers. “You wanna cum, baby?”

I nod furiously, whimpering, no longer able to form coherent words in my head. She was close too, her rhythm faster and more desperate with every thrust.

“Cum for me, my love.”

With her permission, my whole body shatters with hers, unbelievable pleasure washing over me. I could feel her twiching inside me, thick ropes of cum painting my insides, as my walls milked her for every last drop.

We lay there for a moment, basking in the blissful aftermath before she gently pulls out of me.

With a wave of her hand, the ropes disappear and her spells dissipate. I lay in the center of the bed, cheeks tear-streaked, and breath unsteady. My wrists ached where the silk had held me down. My body pulses with the aftershocks of everything she’d done to me.

The mattress dipped as she slid into bed behind me, her hand immediately finding my stomach, gentle and reassuring.

“You’re okay,” she murmured, her voice a little raspy.

I nod slowly, unable to speak yet. She flips me onto my side, wraps her arms around me, and kisses the back of my shoulder softly. She pulls me flush against her as she casts a spell to calm the nerves in my muscles. Almost like a weighted blanket.

“You did so good today baby,” she whispers, brushing my hair back. “Took me so fucking well.”

Her voice was still low and commanding, but there was gentleness in it now. It grounded me.

“I didn’t go too far?” she asks. It comes out casual, but I can hear the tension beneath it. 

My heart swells from knowing that she always cares so much. “You were perfect,” I breathe.

She lets out a relieved sigh and I can feel her smiling against my skin.

After a moment of silence, she leans over and grabs the soft towel she had waiting. She cleans me gently then tucks the towel away, kisses my forehead, and pulls the blanket over both of us.

The world is quiet. Safe.

“You know…” She brushes her fingers lazily along my hip. “You were such a fucking menace today.”

I laugh weakly.

“Sending me those pictures while I was at a crime scene...”

“You liked it,” I mumble.

“I tolerated it,” she deadpans. Then smirks. “Barely.”

She tilts my chin up, kissing me gently. “But you know, if it was too much… you tell me next time. No games. No magic. Just say it.”

I nod.

“I mean it.”

“I know,” I say. “I trust you.”

And I really do. With everything.

She curls around me, hand on my stomach, lips on the back of my neck.

“Sleep now, puppy,” she whispers. “Daddy’s got you.”

[tawnyevergreen]

I had a dream that was Wicked but Elphaba was Johnathan Sims and Oz was Elias, I need to put this on paper somehow

[space-batzz]

WIP for my strawpage!!

this is mostly for formatting purposes. I might add some scrollable boxes or make the link buttons smaller to add more info, like maybe a byf or more sections

Current strawpage is here btw

[ofmaldonia]

(Greta Onieogou, 29 anos, ela/dela) Atenção, atenção, quem vem lá? Ah, é TIANA, da história A PRINCESA E O SAPO! Todo mundo te conhece… Como não conhecer?! Se gostam, aí é outra coisa! Vamos meter um papo reto aqui: as coisas ficaram complicadas para você, né? Você estava vivendo tranquilamente (eu acho…) depois do seu felizes para sempre, você tinha até começado a GOVERNAR MALDONIA, ADMINISTRAR O TIANA’S PALACE E FAZER DIPLOMACIA… E aí, do nada, um monte de gente estranha caiu do céu para atrapalhar a sua vida! Olha, eu espero que nada de ruim aconteça, porque por mais que você seja ALTRUÍSTA, você é WORKAHOLIC, e é o que Merlin diz por aí: precisamos manter a integridade da SUA história! Pelo menos, você pode aproveitar a sua estadia no Reino dos Perdidos fazendo o que você gosta: DAR ATENÇÃO AO SEU RESTAURANTE.

headcanons   ﹢   tiana’s palace   ﹢   wanted connections

HEADCANONS

Tiana finalmente consegue dar a devida atenção ao seu tão sonhado restaurante, deixando as obrigações como rainha em segundo plano, haja vista que nem em Maldonia ela está autorizada a pisar. Secretamente, não está sentindo tanta falta da politicagem e começa a se sentir mais como si mesma enquanto está cozinhando.

O Tiana’s Palace faz semanalmente a Noite de Jazz, uma noite com muita música, dança e diversão. Quando ela era mais jovem e dura, não conhecia sair com seus amigos, por isso decidiu dedicar um dia da semana apenas para isso. Ironicamente, ela não conseguiu marcar presença além da noite de estreia da novidade. Mas agora, oportunidade é que não falta.

Como rainha, é notoriamente esforçada — como em tudo o que dispõe a fazer. No entanto, governar não se parece com nada que já tenha feito antes, e todas as responsabilidades desse mundo novo a conduziram a crises de identidade e ansiedade durante o caminho.

Skeleton.

Posicionamento em relação aos perdidos

Ela não está feliz com nada que está acontecendo, muito menos com as mudanças na sua história. No começo desconfiou que os perdidos não eram tão “perdidos” assim quanto se faziam e sabiam, sim, de alguma coisa. No entanto, com os acontecimentos bizarros que vêm acontecendo, ela está convencida de que eles também são vitimas.

TIANA’S PALACE

É um restaurante famoso no reino da Maldonia — conhecido pelo passado da proprietária trabalhadora, que nunca desistiu de honrar os sonhos do pai, e os dela também. Seu interior é uma visão quase fiel de Nova Orleans, com decorações típicas do lugar onde Tiana e Charlotte cresceram. As cores predominantes são verde, dourado e amadeirado. Embora o salão seja espaçoso, os clientes precisam fazer uma reserva para conseguir um lugar devido a alta demanda — durante o horário de almoço o movimento é mais ameno. Além do cardápio tradicionalmente sulista, há um bar em formato de ilha localizado ao norte do restaurante, com todo tipo de cocktail e mocktail sendo preparado pelos melhores baristas do Mundo das Histórias. Subindo para o primeiro andar, o mezanino reserva ainda mais mesas, sendo que duas únicas mesas que dão vista para o salão central pertencem, com exclusividade, à mãe de Tiana e à família de Naveen. As paredes, por sua vez, contam a história da dona. Dezenas de fotografias capturam o carinho que Tiana, Eudora e o pai nutriam um pelo outro, sua amizade precoce com Charlotte e Eli La Bouff, o baile de aniversário de Lottie, o recorte de jornal que anunciava a chegada do príncipe de Maldonia em Nova Orleans… entre várias outras lembranças, incontáveis. É um ambiente que serve para o melhor dos três mundos: família, amigos e amantes. As Noites do Jazz são organizadas toda semana, quando as mesas e cadeiras são afastadas e se toca muita música para todos dançarem ao som do sul — mãe e filho, melhores amigas, namorados —, embora a proprietária não esteja presente nestas desde a inauguração do evento. Para além das Noites do Jazz, há, em todas as noites, uma banda ao vivo no restaurante tocando jazz e blues para que os clientes se sintam mais perto de Louisiana.

Contrata-se host, barman, sommelier, banda reserva de jazz (tecladista, trompetista, saxofonista, baterista e cantor).

WANTED CONNECTIONS

Muse A é o conselheiro de Tiana e Naveen que oferece seus conselhos aos governantes de Maldonia sempre que necessário. São mais que aliados — são pessoas de mútua confiança e respeito.

Muse B e Muse C também representam confiança para Tiana, visto que são dois aliados políticos no Mundo das Histórias. Possuem amizade e tratados de parceria que beneficiam ambas as partes.

Talvez a coisa que ela mais gosta de fazer além de cozinhar, é ensinar. Muse D, por motivos a combinar, é um pupilo de Tiana.

Durante a crise conjugal que enfrenta, Muse E tem sido essencial para manter Tiana sã, visto que guarda seus sentimentos à sete chaves, ainda mais agora que é uma figura pública e política. É uma das pessoas que ela mais confia e, basicamente, faria tudo por ela apenas por ouvi-la.

Que Tiana é uma mulher que prioriza o trabalho em detrimento da companhia dos amigos, é uma história tão velha quanto o tempo. Porém, isso não freia Muse F de tentar fazê-la sair de seu casulo e fazer coisas que nunca pensou em fazer, especialmente agora que ela está “com tempo” no Reino dos Perdidos.

Muse G tem interesse na tecnologia de Maldonia/Victor Frankenstein, e nada como ter relações importantes para conseguir o que quer. Fez amizade com a carismática governante a pretexto de conseguir algo maior que poder político.

Com os boatos da crise conjugal na boca do povo, Muse H aproveitou a oportunidade para tentar chamar Tiana para sair. Mesmo que ela negue esses boatos e todas as investidas, uma parte de si fica imaginando cenários com Muse começados por “e se…”.

No início do caos, o perdido Muse I se aprochegou de Tiana por acreditar que ela o acolheria em meio toda aquela confusão, mas a reação dela foi a mais avessa o possível. Manteve distância, discutiu, acusou-o de ser manipulador, cínico, e que ele e a “laia dele” eram culpados por tudo de ruim que estava acontecendo ao seu mundo. Muse nunca a perdoou, mesmo depois dela ter tentado se reconciliar (importante dizer que ela não pediu desculpas, apenas justificou suas atitudes).

Semelhantemente ao anterior, a mesma coisa aconteceu com Muse J, mas este a perdoou pela forma que o tratou. Inconscientemente, Tiana tenta recompensá-lo por tudo o que disse e está quase sempre o mimando.

[yumemiruuuu]

Bai Wuxiang: And we’re gonna do the stabby stab 🥰

The entire TGCF fandom, horrified: NO, NOBODY’S GOING TO BE DOING THE STABBY STAB—

[fumifooms]

My first itabag! A bit of this a bit of that, ROTTMNT, Tsuritama and Chainsaw Man with a touch of Sonic, Dorohedoro, Gintama, Pandora Hearts, Osomatsu-san and ocs.

It’s a bit of a mess but I love the hobby and I doubt this’ll be my last one, I might tweak this one a bit too, or get another insert to swap out. Some charms at the bottom hang too low, and there were other things I wanted to put in the bottom corners too. I might put a big Hozuki keychain I have on the side hmm… With this size it’d have been fun building around putting in my 12" Metal Sonic Jazwares figure and a Metal Sonic plush I have, but ahh some other day… I struggled with it because the weight of it all made the insert sag and fold over, I didn’t see anything on the topic online so what I did is I found a big sturdy cardboard, and pinned the finished insert to it… Two cardboards for good measure. Oh also my badges have reflective plastic covers.

List of the items under cut.

Fanmade TMNT bow by Maidenskiss on Etsy, item listing is gone.

Ocs! Drawn and made by Auunko

Fanmade ROTTMNT charm by Malelo1002 on twitter

Fanmade ROTTMNT charm by MortinfamiART, item listing is unavailable.

Fanmade ROTTMNT patch by GiraffeCatCo on Etsy, item listing is gone.

Official Tsuritama merch

Bootlegs I found without credit. If you know do tell me

Official Chainsaw Man merch

Fanmade Chainsaw Man charm by 118ween: link

Official Dorohedoro merch

Shadow fanzine merch, link. Artist for pin: Yureimori on twitter. Artist for keychain: Snaggypeets on twitter.

Official Pandora Hearts badge and official Osomatsu-san charm

Fanmade Tsuritama charm by Hachibani: link

Rainbow Loom craft project of pikachu I made a decade ago, I don’t have a link to the tutorial.

[toxicrevolver]

Halloween tag game! Thanks for the tag!!! @serendipminie

Do this quiz find out what horror movie stereotype you are

And make this picrew/dolldivine to design your look

I’m also somehow a tragic hero. Idk. Maybe it’s bcs I’m always trying to fight. In all actuality I’d probably be one of the first people to die in a horror movie bcs I can’t keep my mouth shut (which is filed under reasons I’d do terrible in prison). This was super fun tho. I love doing pic crew things (even tho I hate my face).

And as per usual I’m not tagging anyone bcs I am lazy (and socially awkward) plus I have the big sad. But if anyone wants to participate they can blame me as the reason.

[kinnbig]

a song from my Burnout fic playlist just came on my regular music shuffle while i’m in the middle of finally doing some chores i’ve been putting off for days and now im vibrating at the speed of light with feelings about Big and my fic and the need to WRITE IT but also i’m exhausted and also i have many more chores to do before i’m done for the day :(

[stone-stars]

bev sash design achieved!

[ID: a green sash laying on the ground, covered in patches. From top to bottom there are: a sun with leaves framing it; 6 metal leaf pins; a row with a storm cloud, a sun, and a mushroom; and four rows of round patches. The round patches are a raccoon, a beach, a glowing heart, a star, a guitar, an eye, animals, a sun, an archery target, a moon, tragedy and comedy masks, and a planet.]

the stormcloud is for hardwon (stormborn) and the mushroom is for moonshine, with a sun in the middle for bev. considering adding a gay heart as well :3

[c04l01l]

at least i have a bunch of nice stuff planned for my boyfriend’s birthday

[meowrimo]

omg aims!! what a cute little mootiez initiative 🥺 happy august 🥺

my favourite emoji is this: ☁️ + something that has made me smile recently... i bought new workout clothes 😋

as part of my august greeting! i am also wishing you a lovely month 🥺 august is my favourite month, so i am sending all that good energy your way too 🥺 i have a few little curious sel questions for you as well!! what is your favorite month, and why? + which character do you find the easiest to write (for whatever reason it may be!) 🥺

hi sel my belle (ㅅ´ ˘ `) hehe i’m putting this under the cut so i can answer your cute lil question :’) you’re such a sweetheart for always sending these out, it makes me feel like we are all at a lil slumber party + swapping secrets about our blorbos. i adore it + you ! 🤍💫

august is your fave month ? :3 what makes it your fave !! i’d love to know hehe

mine is probably may hehe because spring has been warmed up, the flowers have bloomed and summer is right on the horizon. nothing but sunshine and hope! it always puts me in a good mood 🥹

as for what character i find easiest to write, oooooo this is tricky hehe honestly, i struggle a lot with characterization because im always scared that my love for the character gets in the way of their actual characterization LOL. but i would say,,, maybe kuroo + zoro ! i think its easier for me bc ive written them so much. they’re my default when it comes to new ideas :3

[oreo-creampies]

𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 𝐬𝐥𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: mean/angry nerd!switch!choso, hate fucking/academic rivals, Daddy/brat, biting, degradation/mocking, two pussy slaps, a hint of oral/fingering for some prep, pain kink, begging, just the tip, choking, light fem dom!reader, biting, hair pulling/dragging, mirror sex, full nelson, squirting

Oreo: @arminsumi @vampress7 lets all be delulu over nerd!choso, normal choso could and would never be so mean. I stand by that but this is nerd!choso Au whose done with your shit even if you are right! 🤤

“You’re such an annoying brat correcting me in class.” Choso grabs your arms pinning them above your head. Stuffing his thigh between your legs. Grinding your hips, your soft clit perfectly rubbing on his thick thigh.

Fighting the urge to groan. “If you weren't wrong, I wouldn't have to-!” Choso shuts you up with a rough kiss, biting your bottom lip. Slipping his tongue past when you cry.

Squeezing your neck, pulling away, smirking down at you. “Say something now, do anything other than grind your clit on my thigh like a pretty dirty whore.” Glaring up at him, unable to stop yourself. It feels to go to rock your clothed cunt on his clothed thigh.

Sneering, “If only the class knew what a pathetic whore you are. Glaring up at me like you won't beg for my cock.” It’s going straight to your needy cunt the way Choso is looking down at you with such angry hunger.

Moving his thigh from between yours. Roughly unbutton your pants, yanking them down your thighs with your underwear Curling two thick fingers into your cunt. “Already stupidly wet for me, nnn can't believe such a pretty cunt belongs to such a brat.” Letting go of your neck, crouching down ripping your pants down the rest of the way.

“Aw Choso Kamo is mad 'cause I’m right! Doesn't matter how much of a stupid cock drunk slut your fat cock makes me it won't change that!” Slapping your clit and cunt repeatedly. Slapping your hand over your mouth, muffling your cries from the sweet sting.

Biting your stomach, gliding two thick fingers. You grab a fistful of his dark hair tugging till he whines. Your sloppy wet cunt quivers around Choso's thick fingers from the beautiful sound. “Annoying brat.” Propping your thigh on his broad shoulder, shoving his face towards your clit.

“Shut up and suck my clit.” Biting your thigh, pumping his thick fingers faster. Massaging your sweet spot, licking your soft clit. Groaning into your cunt, grabbing your hip digging in his nails.

Squirming grinding your hips, swiping your clit on his pierced tongue. Curling from your toes from the sweet pressure of his hard bar. “Fuck you for being so damn beautiful with my cunt on your face.” Sloppily sucking on your soft clit, groaning getting off in the soft squelching of his finger sinking into your sloppy wet cunt.

Gliding his fingers out, slipping your thigh off his shoulder standing up. Unbuttoning his dark pants, pushing them down, kicking them to the side. “No underwear? Figures why everyone could see the fat outline of your cock when you were in front of the class.”

Picking up his beautiful cock. Biting your lip, stroking your clit, you love the way he’s so fat and heavy he hangs. He smirks looking down at you, trapping your head between his large hands.

Grabbing his cock touching stroking your clit. “I knew you were lookin’ n you lied sayin’ you weren't.” He groans when you slide your side lips along his cock, smearing slick into his cock head. Helping you stroke your clit better.

“Fuck you, you didn't deserve the satisfaction after being wrong. You should have studied better, I'm disappointed in you can I even think of you as a rival after that.” Biting Choso’s tattoo of black flowers and dark green leaves and thorny vines.

The large garden covers most of his body. Hiding scars you’ve memorized the placement of. You hate him so much, yet you know his body better than your own.

Tracing over the one above his heart. Kissing the bite mark. “Please you know you’re going to be thinking about seeing me in class tomorrow. Let’s see how good your essay is, if I think it’s less than 96 you’re not cumming.” Grabbing your hair pulling your head back.

Looking up at him, siding your hand down from his thick hard pecs to his sculpted abs. “Fuck whatever stupid grading system you have it's rigged. You just want to hear me beg.” Stepping back, taking away his thick, warm cock on your soft clit.

Choso leads you from his living room into the hallway with a firm grasp on your hair. “Damn right, I want to hear you beg for this cock. Watch yourself, see what a dumb slut I fuck ya into.” Letting go, shoving you into his bathroom, grabbing your arm, and twisting you to face the mirror. Bending you over, lifting your ass up in the air.

Grabbing the counter. Admiring Choso in the mirror. His broad chest, thick arms, and slim waist. “I want to be fucked dumb by your fat cock.” Lining his thick cock up gliding in just his fat cock head.

Suspended in the air with only his tip in you, you look so desperate begging. "Please fuck me with your fat cock, I don't want to think of anything else. Wanna be your pretty dumb cock sleeve." Gliding his cock out, slapping himself on your lips.

Clenching with every wet smack, lining himself back up gliding only his fat tip into you. His fat head alone stretching your cunt feels too damn good. "Please fuck my bratty attitude outta me, make me your mindless cum stuffed slut. NNn." Roughly pulling you back to meet his harsh thrust, stuffing you full of his cock.

Loudly moaning, "Fuck me!" Choso grabs your hair, yanking you upright. Wrapping an arm around his neck. Choso slips his arms underneath your legs, folding you in half. Bouncing you in time with his hard, quick thrusts.

Stroking your sweet spot before stirring your guts up. "That's what I thought it's ok ya can moan you are my stupid pretty slut." Slipping his arm across your body, trapping both your legs over his thick forearm.

You're tightly pinned, knees to your chest watching your cunt get stuffed. Getting off on how Choso needs one arm to support you. Stroking your clit whining from the sweet toe-curling pleasure, clenching his fat cock. "Nnn daddy please!"

"Daddy? Already is it that good? Like seeing how your cunt is making a perfect circle from how fat my cock is." Steadily stroking your soft clit. Over the months of ending up in his apartment he's perfected playing with your clit.

You couldn't do it better yourself anymore. Couldn't cum this hard that your eyes are rolling back, body trembling, jaw-dropping. Your thick slick dripping down Choso's balls, some of your squirt splashing onto his counter.

Forgetting everything but getting fucked stupid on Choso's fat, veiny cock. “Ya cummin' so much for me, thought ya hated me but look at you. Giving me those love sick eyes." You don't have the mind to protest.

Choso smirks, "I might be second in class but I'm still your Daddy. No one else can fuck ya like I can look at ya already a stupid drooling brat.”

oreo’s m.list

[yasministration]

disgustingly cute - harry potter

wolfstar!daughter au summary: sometimes, sirius hates that you're dating his best friend's son, but in moments like these, he just cannot deny that you are both so disgustingly cute together. wc: 0.7k

When Sirius slumps onto the couch facing you and Harry, he has to do a double take. A grin tugs at his lips when he takes notice of the view in front of him. At first glance, it would look like you and Harry were being disgustingly cute, as per usual. But now Sirius can see from the way Harry’s hand slowly caresses your back, and the way he struggles to turn over the page in the newspaper he’s reading, that you’re very much asleep.

You’re sat on the couch next to your boyfriend, but your legs are placed over his lap, torso leaning on his chest and head laying on his shoulder. Sirius can only imagine how numb Harry’s arm has gone. “You alright, Harry?”

Your boyfriend’s head snaps up at the call of his name, and he nods to your dad, asking “Yeah, you?”

“I’m just fine. Do you want me to take her off you?”

Harry furrows his eyebrows, glancing down at you. He shakes his head as though your dad has asked a ridiculous question. “No, I like her here.” Sirius smiles fondly, tilting his head to the side. Harry lays the newspaper on your legs, flicking over to the next page before lifting it up closer to his face again.

“Did you hear about the Lestrange trials happening in the ministry?”

Sirius ignores Harry’s question, sinking back into the couch. “Has your arm not gone numb yet?” Harry’s face flushes darkly, and he shrugs, the movement small so he doesn’t stir you. He glances down at you, lips tugging upwards into a smile, seeing the way your hand clutches his jumper in your sleep.

“Yeah, but I don’t mind.” Harry’s words are quiet, but Sirius stands up nonetheless, deciding it’s probably best to move you from your boyfriend’s hold. He’s been in his position before, with you falling asleep on his lap, and he knows how difficult it can be to part from your warm skin, no matter how tired his limbs go.

But just as Sirius approaches the pair of you, the door to the backyard squeaks as it slides open, and Lily Potter pops her head into the living room. She stays silent for a short moment, observing the scene, before finally saying “Harry, we’ve got dinner with the Longbottoms soon, remember?”

Harry doesn’t remember. But dinner with the Longbottoms means that he has to part with you. He smiles at your father, who chuckles as he comes closer to you. His hand slides under your legs, the second arm curling around your back.

“Tip her in my direction.” He tells Harry, who straightens up, pushing you directly into your dad’s arms. Sirius lifts you up with so much ease that Harry is almost jealous, and he places you on the other end of the couch, where you immediately curl into a pillow. Harry stretches his arm, grimacing at the feeling of pins and needles as the blood flows back into the limb. He crawls over to where you lay on the couch, brushes your hair out of your face, and places a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“See you later.” Harry tells Sirius, who waves him away, before following his mum out of the garden door. Lily lingers in the doorway even after Harry has disappeared, a small smile on her face. When she lifts her gaze from you to Sirius, it turns into a full blown grin. Sirius rolls his eyes, but the matching smile on his face as he crosses his arms tells Lily he’s just as happy about their kids dating.

Just as Lily pushes herself off the door frame, Remus walks in, clad in a warm sweater. He rubs at his eyes, waking up from a nap of his own, and when he reaches Sirius, he wraps his arms around his husband’s waist. “You just missed the most adorable moment.” Sirius whispers, and Remus lifts his eyes up to meet Lily’s. When he sees the look on her face, he jokingly rolls his eyes, saying “Let me guess. Does it have to do with a certain green eyed boy?”

taglist: @c0ldstvfh, @dlljdhsh, @thenasoneshots, @bxuzi, @rory-cakes, @5sospenguinqueen, @bluebvrriee, @aouoo, @fandomhoe101, @sharkers00, @blablablacookie, @ravisinghs-wife, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @treefairy-28, @superlegend216, @kitkatkl, @juliet-017, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @matcha-kitty13, @thenasoneshots, @slytherin-princess-x, @bxuzi, @rory-cakes, @dlljdhsh, @girlontheblock, @5sospenguinqueen, @bluebvrriee, @aouoo, @spider–girl, @fandomhoe101, @user010380, @simp-for-fiction, @selenewowww, @paytonluvxx, @sharkers00

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

P☆SSY OBSESSED WOLVES.

paring : wolf!zayne, sylus, caleb and xavier x fem!reader.

synopsis : You got lost in the woods, just trying to find a way out. Instead, you found him—half-wolf, all muscle, and painfully in heat. He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. One look, one growl, and you knew exactly what he wanted. And god… you wanted it too

tws : nsfw ／ smut, vaginal (creampie), marking, bitting, cervix kissing, nipple play, spanking, knotting (locked), multiple of rounds,, fingering, breeding kink and size kink.

note : I FINALLY FINISHED THIS, IT FELT LIKE YEARS!! Also didn’t do rafayel since I was too tired and didn’t feel like it. also there might be alot of mistakes since it ain’t proofread. ✌🏼

－ZAYNE ．

You were just trying to find your way out.

A wrong turn, a dead GPS, and an eerie quiet. The deeper into the woods you went, the heavier the air got. The moon hung low—full and yellow—watching.

Then you saw him.

Tall. Bare-chested. Black ears pinned back. Broad shoulders rising with ragged breaths. Zayne.

But not the calm Zayne you knew.

This one had hazel green eyes blown wide, tail twitching like a metronome behind him, body radiating heat like he was burning alive from the inside out.

“Y-you okay?” you asked, barely able to speak with how hard your throat clenched.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared.

Then sniffed.

Hard.

And groaned. Low. Deep. The kind that made your knees wobble.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he said, voice hoarse. “I was trying to be alone.”

“Zayne…” You took a small step closer. “Are you—?”

“In heat.” His jaw clenched. “It’s… hard to fight.”

You swallowed. He looked huge. Wild. His muscles twitched, like he was holding himself back with the last bit of sanity he had left.

He took a shaky breath, ears flattening as he forced out, “You need to leave, sweetheart. I can’t trust myself.”

But you didn’t run.

Because fuck, the way he looked at you—like prey he’d die for—had your panties soaked. Your thighs clenched.

He noticed.

His nostrils flared again. “You’re… turned on.”

You nodded.

That’s all it took.

He was on you—hands gentle but firm, pushing you against a tree. He kissed you like he’d waited years for it, like his tongue could taste the want leaking out of you.

“I’m sorry,” he growled into your mouth, grinding into you. “You smell too good. You’re not safe with me—unless you say yes. Say it now, and I’ll stop. Please. Say it.”

Your body arched to his.

“Zayne,” you gasped, “Please. Fuck me. I want it—I want you.”

His restraint shattered.

He growled, spun you around, yanked your panties down and pressed your back against a tree trunk rough with bark. His cock—thick, hot, leaking—rubbed between your soaked folds.

“Gonna fill you up, baby. Gonna make sure you’re too full to walk. You sure about this?”

“Breed me,” you begged.

And that was it.

He plunged in slow, dragging a moan from your throat. He was massive. You swore you could feel every inch rearranging you, kissing the back of your pussy.

“That’s it… good girl,” he whispered, holding your hips as you trembled. “You’re so fucking tight. Taking me so well.”

Crack!

You yelped when his hand smacked your ass.

“Stay still,” he growled. “Let me fuck this little pussy like it’s mine.”

He slammed in again, deeper, harder. You gasped, arching against the tree, toes curling in your boots.

You couldn’t even speak. Just drooled and cried out while he used your cunt like it was built for him.

Then—he bit.

Teeth sank into your shoulder, not enough to draw blood, but enough to mark. Your pussy clenched around him, fluttering as you came.

“That’s it,” he groaned, voice feral. “Mark you—so everyone knows. You’re mine. Say it.”

“M’yours,” you slurred.

He laughed softly, wrecked and breathless. “God, you’re so pretty when you go dumb for it…”

He grabbed your hair, gently pulled you back so he could watch your face as he shoved deep—so deep his tip pressed right against your cervix.

“Fuck—you feel that? That’s your limit. And I’m still not all the way in.”

You moaned, wrecked, dripping down your thighs.

He kissed your cheek. “One more. Let me knot you.”

His knot—it was swollen at the base, barely able to push in. He grunted, forcing it past your entrance. You screamed, body locking up as it stretched you wide, plugging you.

“Shh… I got you,” he whispered. “Just let it happen. I’ll take care of you.”

Then he came.

Hot, thick ropes shot into your womb, filling you so fast it spilled out around his knot. Your legs gave out. He caught you with both arms, pressing soft kisses to your neck even as he stayed locked inside.

“You’re so full, sweetheart,” he whispered. “So fuckin’ pretty like this. I can feel your cunt milking me—wanting it.”

You were a mess. Barely conscious. Babbling his name.

He held you like glass.

“I’ll carry you back when my knot goes down,” he murmured. “You don’t have to do anything. Just… let me hold you. Let me take care of my mate.”

You whimpered into his chest.

You’d never been claimed like this.

And you’d never wanted anyone else again.

－SYLUS ．

You should’ve never wandered into the woods after dark—but you couldn’t help yourself. The moon was full. The air was thick. Something in your chest had been aching, restless, and now your legs carried you deeper and deeper until the world went quiet.

That’s when you felt it—eyes on you.

Then you saw him.

Standing in a clearing like he belonged to it.

Sylus.

His usual composed, unreadable expression was gone—replaced with a glazed hunger, his red eyes glowing with something ancient. His white hair was tousled, his white ears twitching slightly, that thick, soft white tail low and flicking. His skin glistened, shirt discarded, chest rising and falling with every heavy breath. His cock—already hard—strained against his pants, the bulge obscenely thick, the knot at the base already swelling.

He was trying to control it.

But the moment your scent hit him—your arousal blooming in your panties just from the sight of him—he snapped.

“Kitten,” he said lowly, voice rough and calm, like he was lecturing you. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You’re in heat too, aren’t you?” He stalked closer. You backed into a tree. His hand braced beside your head, body towering over yours. “Look at you. Tits bouncing with every breath. Eyes begging for it. Don’t lie to me.”

He reached between your legs. Two fingers pressed against your soaked underwear and dragged up, slow.

“So wet already…” he murmured. “What were you thinking, wandering this deep, smelling like this?”

“I—I didn’t mean to—” you started, but his fingers pressed harder, right against your clit, drawing a whimper from your lips.

“Yes, you did. You wanted to be found. Wanted someone to take control. Wanted me.”

You couldn’t answer.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“Say it. Say you want my cock.”

“I… want it,” you gasped. “Please, Sylus—want all of you.”

He chuckled softly, then kissed you—slow and deep, tongue sliding in with all the patience of a man about to lose it. One hand slid up under your shirt, cupping your tit, thumbing your nipple until you moaned into his mouth.

“Perfect fucking tits,” he murmured, squeezing it in his palm. “Soft little handfuls—gonna leave bruises on these.”

He shoved your shirt up, mouth latching onto one nipple, sucking it between his teeth while his hand rolled the other. You clawed at his back, trembling.

Then he moved—quick and smooth—pushing you to the forest floor, flipping you onto your back and dragging your shorts off with one hard pull.

“Open up, kitten,” he ordered. “Let me see.”

You spread for him.

He hissed between his teeth. “Fucking gorgeous. And this little pussy—fuck—it’s drooling. You really did come out here for cock.”

Two fingers slid in without warning. Your back arched off the mossy ground, eyes rolling back.

“So tight,” he said, watching your hole stretch around his fingers. “So fucking needy. Bet you’ll milk me dry the second I knot you.”

He curled his fingers up, grinding the heel of his palm against your clit, pumping until you were shaking—until your thighs clamped around his wrist.

“You gonna cum already?” he whispered. “Just from my fingers?”

You nodded helplessly.

“Then cum. Right now. Do it while I watch.”

Your pussy clamped around his fingers, soaking him. He held you through it, still working you as you sobbed into your arm, overwhelmed.

“That’s one,” he said. “We’re not done.”

He stripped off the rest of his clothes, cock slapping heavy against his stomach—long, flushed, throbbing, and veiny. The tip leaked pre-cum in thick drops. And his knot… gods, it looked impossible.

“You’re going to take all of it,” he promised. “Even this.”

He lined up and shoved in.

You screamed.

His cock was massive, stretching you to the edge of pain—but it was perfect. You could feel everything. Every throb. Every vein. He bottomed out, hitting your cervix, and stayed there.”

“Kitten,” he whispered against your cheek, holding still, letting you feel him twitch inside. “You’re already stuffed. But you can take more.”

He started moving—slow, deep strokes that rocked your whole body.

He grabbed your tits again, squeezing and slapping them lightly. Watching them bounce as he thrust.

“Love these. So fucking soft. I could fuck them too. Make you lick the head while I slide between them. Would you like that?”

You moaned, brain melting from how full you felt.

He leaned down and bit your tit—hard. Not enough to break skin, but enough to leave his teeth behind.

Then he grabbed your hair and yanked your head back, biting your neck next—deeper. Harder. Marking you.

“Mine,” he growled. “You hear me, kitten? I’m going to fuck you until your womb knows it. Until you feel me every time you walk.”

His pace grew brutal. No more patience. Just raw, slapping thrusts as his knot started to catch on your entrance.

“You ready?” he panted. “I’m gonna plug you. Gonna fill you up so deep it won’t leave.”

You begged, moaned, cried for it.

And then with a feral grunt—he forced it in.

Your pussy screamed around it, stretched wide, locked.

Then he came.

Hot, thick spurts flooded your womb, each one timed with his cock twitching, his hips jerking involuntarily. There was so much. Too much. It leaked around the knot, smeared down your ass.

You were sobbing, overstimulated, completely ruined.

And he still held your tits like they were his favorite toys, thumbing your nipples even as he emptied himself inside you.

He leaned down, kissing your throat.

“Shhh, kitten. You’re okay,” he whispered. “I know it’s a lot. Just breathe.”

He stayed knotted, holding you close, petting your hair.

“You’re mine now,” he said softly. “And I’m not letting go. Not tonight. Not ever.”

You’re still shaking when he rolls his hips again.

Still spread open beneath him, pinned to the forest floor, his massive cock locked inside you by that thick, swollen knot. Your pussy stretches around it—wet, swollen, twitching. His cum leaks out in warm, milky drips, making a mess of your thighs and the moss beneath.

You’d lost count of how many times you’d cum. How many times he made you cum.

And Sylus? He’s just smiling.

Not that cocky, boyish smirk. No. This one is slow. Quiet. Predatory. His glowing red eyes never leave your face. Not even for a second.

“You look beautiful like this,” he whispers, brushing your hair from your face. “So full. So fucked-out. My perfect little kitten.”

You whimper, barely able to respond. Your arms are limp around his shoulders, your chest heaving as he starts slowly grinding his hips again.

The knot grinds against your inner walls, stretching you just enough to ache—and Sylus watches you fall apart again with quiet satisfaction.

“Sensitive already?” he hums, tilting his head. “But you’re still so tight around me. Squeezing like you want more.”

Your nails scrape his back. “Sylus—nngh—can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” He leans in, nuzzling your neck with his nose. “You will. You’re made to take me, kitten. Look at your poor pussy, still clenching, still drooling for me. You want to be ruined again, don’t you?”

He thrusts—just once. Shallow. Cruel.

You scream.

It hits your cervix, hard, and you feel him throb inside you. The pressure of the knot keeps you stretched, stuffed, plugged, and now he’s moving again—just enough to push you over the edge.

“Cum for me,” he whispers, lips at your ear. “Do it. Let me feel you.”

You don’t even need to try.

Your whole body jerks, pussy spasming around the knot as your eyes roll back. You’re sobbing. Barely even conscious. All you know is Sylus—his heat, his cock, the growl in his throat as he starts to rut into you again.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “There you go. Just like that. Let it all out. Let me feel this greedy little cunt choke on me.”

He pulls out just enough to tease, dragging his cock along your walls, letting you feel every ridge, every vein, every twitch of his swollen tip before forcing the knot back in. You cry out again.

“Shhh,” he murmurs. “I know, kitten. I know it’s too much. But you’re taking it so well. So perfectly. I’m going to keep going until you’re bred so full, it leaks out for days.”

He leans down and bites your neck again, deeper this time—his canines sinking in just hard enough to sting, marking you all over again. You can feel the heat of his breath, the calm in his voice, even as he uses your body like it’s his.

His hand slides down to your chest, cupping your tit and kneading it slowly. He brushes a thumb over your sensitive nipple, then pinches—just to hear you gasp.

“Still so soft,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I could spend hours just playing with these. My hands were made to hold them.”

You moan, incoherent. Everything’s too much.

And Sylus knows it.

He watches your face closely as you writhe under him, your legs spread wide, his tail swishing lazily behind him. Every time you sob, he kisses your cheek. Every time your pussy clenches, he praises you.

“You’re doing so well, kitten. Letting me fill you like this. Taking my knot like a good little bitch in heat.”

He slows down again. Just grinding now. Letting the knot drag against your g-spot while his tip kisses your cervix with every roll of his hips.

It’s devastating.

You’re mewling, twitching, your fingers tangled in his white hair, clutching him like he’s the only thing tethering you to reality.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, lips trembling. “Don’t pull out. Ever.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” he says softly. “This pussy’s mine now.”

You’re drooling. Moaning his name like a prayer. His red eyes glow brighter in the moonlight as he watches you unravel, slowly, completely.

Another orgasm rips through you.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not until your body gives out, limp and twitching beneath him, your pussy still fluttering around the knot like it misses him already.

He holds you there, gently, his hand stroking your thigh while his cock pulses with one more slow, deep release—thick cum flooding your insides again, pushed up against your womb, warm and claiming.

You can barely speak.

You’re ruined.

And Sylus?

Still hard. Still in you.

Still whispering into your ear, calm as ever:

“You’re not going anywhere tonight, kitten. I’m going to keep you like this. Plugged. Bred. Mine.”

— CALEB ．

You should’ve turned back when the sun dipped low—but you didn’t. The woods had grown darker, quieter, and every path looked the same. You’d lost service hours ago, your legs ached, your heartbeat pounded behind your ears, and the air was thick—hotter than it should’ve been.

Then you heard it.

A low, ragged pant. Not like a dog. Deeper. More desperate.

Then—your name. Half-growled, wrecked, hungry.

“…You came.”

You froze.

He stepped out from between the trees, his wolf ears twitching, tail hanging low and stiff behind him. His eyes locked onto yours like he was starving—and you were dinner.

Your breath caught. You didn’t speak. You didn’t move.

He did.

Caleb closed the distance fast—hands grabbing your hips, holding you still, panting against your neck like he’d been chasing you for miles. You felt his whole body trembling. His voice, when he spoke, was guttural, cracked with restraint.

“I tried to wait,” he breathed. “I did. But it hurts.”

You shuddered.

His nose skimmed your neck, dragging in your scent. His groan vibrated against your skin. “Fuck. You’re… perfect. Your smell—you’re ready, too.”

You weren’t sure when your back hit a tree, or when his hand slipped between your thighs—but suddenly your shorts were on the forest floor, and his fingers were dragging slow, wet circles over your clit.

“Already soaked?” he murmured. “You came out here wanting this, didn’t you?”

You whimpered.

Two fingers slid inside—deep, slow, curling in just the right place to make your legs shake. His tail thumped the ground once. He licked his lips.

“Your body knows what it wants. Knows who it belongs to, pipsqueak.”

He dropped to his knees. You nearly screamed when his tongue replaced his fingers, licking deep and slow and messy—like he was starving. Your thighs clamped around his head. He groaned into you.

“You taste like heat,” he growled against your cunt, licking faster. “Fuck—I need to be inside you.”

You were shaking when he stood back up, your slick dripping down your thighs, cunt fluttering from just his mouth and fingers. He turned you around before you could speak—hands bracing you against the tree, fingers digging into your hips.

You felt the heat of him. Thick. Heavy. Pressing against your entrance.

He leaned in, mouth against your ear, breath ragged. “I’m going to ruin you.”

And then he pushed in.

You cried out—stretching wide around his cock, gasping when he bottomed out with one deep thrust. He was huge. You felt everything—his tip nudging your cervix, his shaft pulsing inside you, the obscene drag of his length as he started to move.

“So tight,” he groaned. “So good—fuck, you’re squeezing me like you were made for this.”

His rhythm picked up. Every thrust hit deep. His hips slapped against your ass, hands spanking you when you clenched too hard.

“You like it when gege fills you up like this? Gonna take it all, aren’t you?”

Your answer was a sob.

Then—you felt it. That stretch. That pressure. His knot was swelling.

You shook your head. “Caleb, wait—!”

He growled. “Too late. You said yes with your body.”

His knot forced inside with a wet pop. You screamed as it locked deep in your cunt, locking you together, sealing you around him.

Caleb slammed one last time, hard and deep, groaning as thick waves of cum pulsed from him, filling your womb so full you felt it ache. Your stomach fluttered. Your body trembled. You couldn’t move—only feel.

“You feel that?” he whispered, biting your shoulder just enough to leave a mark. “I’m breeding you, pipsqueak.”

And he didn’t stop.

Even as your legs gave out, even as your cunt fluttered from overstimulation, he held you tight, whispering filth into your ear.

“Round two’s coming. You’re not done. Gotta make sure it takes. Gotta feel you swell with me.”

He fucked you through it, again and again, even as you sobbed and begged—his tail twitching, his ears perked, hands stroking your clit, tugging your nipples, spanking your ass until you were gasping.

You lost count of the orgasms. You lost track of time.

But he didn’t stop until the knot finally deflated—only to build again.

Because once wasn’t enough.

— XAVIER ．

You didn’t mean to wander so far. The sun had been up when you started walking—but now the woods were bathed in silver light, shadows crawling across the underbrush, air thick with something humid, heavy, and strange.

You felt it before you heard him.

A pulse in your chest. A flicker of instinct. Something was watching you.

Then—his voice.

Low. Shaky. Familiar. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You turned—and there he was.

Xavier.

His usual sharp composure was gone. His silver hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat. His shoulders rose and fell with each uneven breath. His tail was stiff behind him, twitching. His wolf ears were flattened, trembling. His eyes were glowing.

You didn’t have to ask. You didn’t need to.

Your legs wobbled. Your heart pounded.

He stepped closer, slow, every movement tense—like he was holding himself back.

“I can smell you.”

Your breath hitched.

“Do you know what that does to me?” His voice cracked. “I haven’t touched anyone in years. I’ve avoided this. But now you’re here. You’re wet. You’re ready.”

You should’ve run.

But your body ached. Every part of you wanted him.

You whispered his name—and he snapped.

He was on you in seconds, shoving you back against a tree, his mouth crashing into yours with a hunger that bordered on feral. His hands tore at your clothes, pulling them off in pieces, until you were bared to the cold air—and his burning skin.

His mouth trailed down—neck, shoulder, breast. He latched onto your nipple, sucking, teeth grazing, tongue flicking. Your moans echoed in the trees. One hand groped your ass while the other slipped between your thighs, fingers sliding in deep.

“So tight,” he growled. “You’ll stretch for me.”

His fingers worked you open—slow at first, then harder, rougher. You cried out, clutching his shoulders. Your body trembled.

“I need to be inside you,” Xavier said, voice broken with need. “But I have to warn you—I’m not human when I’m like this.”

You nodded. You didn’t care.

He turned you around, bending you over a mossy rock, his hands gripping your hips. You felt him press against your entrance—huge, hot, throbbing—and when he finally pushed in, you screamed.

He bottomed out in one slow thrust, hips grinding against yours, cock so thick it kissed your cervix. Your body spasmed. He groaned low, fangs bared.

“Fuck—you’re perfect.”

He started moving—deep, hard strokes, hips smacking against your ass, each thrust rougher than the last. You sobbed his name, your walls clenching. He spanked you when you tightened too much.

“You like being filled like this?” he snarled. “You were made to take my knot.”

You didn’t know how long he fucked you like that. Your thoughts were gone. Everything was heat and pressure and him. His cock throbbed deep in your belly. Your slick dripped down your thighs.

Then—you felt it.

His knot.

Thick. Swollen. Pushing at your entrance with every thrust.

“I’m gonna lock inside you,” he growled. “Gonna fill you. Mark you.”

You begged. You cried. You said yes.

With one brutal thrust, his knot popped inside. You screamed—stretched wide, locked full. He growled as he came, hips grinding as his seed spilled inside you in thick, hot waves.

Your belly ached. Your legs gave out. He held you tight.

Still knotted. Still hard.

“You’re not done,” he whispered into your neck. “You can take more.”

He flipped you over without pulling out, your back pressed to the grass, his knot keeping you locked. His hand slid between your thighs, stroking your clit, making you sob. His lips found your other nipple, sucking deep, marking it with his tongue.

“I want you full,” he growled. “Want it dripping out of both holes.”

You blinked up at him, dazed.

He smirked.

“You didn’t think I’d stop at one, did you?”

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

[rawjutsu]

gas station glory

pairing: toji x femreader x sukuna

tags: dubcon, public sex, oral (m receiving), double penetration, spitroasting, degradation, cumplay, creampie,

you just wanted a $15 bottle of shitty vodka. something to pass the time, something sharp on your tongue while you walked your way through this dustbowl town. the clerk refused — something about not being 21 — and now you’re standing on the curb, glaring into the dark and empty lot like it personally offended you.

“fucking puritan rules,” you mutter.

“having a rough day, sweetheart?”

the voice is deep, amused. you turn — and there they are: two men leaning against a beat-up truck like it’s some kind of throne. one of them’s lean, cocky, pink-haired with too many tattoos to count. the other’s broad and built like a steel trap — tall, scarred, green-eyed and chewing a toothpick.

“i’m fine,” you say, instantly on edge. “just trying to get a drink.”

“can’t buy it yourself?” the pink-haired one asks.

“i turn 21 in two days,” you huff. “c’mon, it’s not a big deal.”

the scarred one — toji, you learn later — scoffs. “not buying some dumb brat alcohol.”

you look between them. weigh your options. then, after a beat:

“...what if i suck your dick?”

they stare at you.

sukuna laughs. “only if you suck both of our dicks.”

your lips curl into a grin.

“deal.”

you drop to your knees right there in the alley behind the station.

it’s messy. desperate. filthy.

toji tastes like sweat and salt, thick and heavy on your tongue, groaning low when you take him deep. sukuna’s behind you, palming himself through his jeans like he’s watching his favorite movie.

you gag. spit. drool all over yourself. they love it.

“she’s fuckin’ feral,” toji growls. “look at her — takin’ cock like a back-alley cumslut.”

“look at this sloppy little mouth,” sukuna sneers, grabbing your chin. “you that desperate for attention, baby? or just cock?”

you nod.

he unzips. shoves his cock between your lips like you were made to be passed around.

they take turns. they trade off. your throat’s sore, your jaw aches, and your brain’s mushy with how good it feels to be needed, ruined, owned.

“i’m gonna cum,” sukuna grunts. “where d’you want it, dumb girl? hm? mouth or face?”

“mouth,” you pant.

“tch.” toji’s scowl is annoyed — almost jealous. “would’ve looked real cute painted up like a fucktoy.”

they both stroke themselves over your tongue. heavy, fast, growling curses until one — then both — cum hard, hot and salty, filling your mouth until you almost choke.

“don’t swallow yet,” toji orders. “hold it, like a good cumdump.”

you don’t. you let it sit there like a fucking offering.

they stare.

“jesus fuck,” sukuna mutters. “look at her. mouth full, drool everywhere — she loves being used.”

you finally swallow with a lewd gulp.

“let's go get that bottle.”

you go to walk back towards the gas station mini-mart.

you don’t get far.

sukuna grabs your waist. toji grabs your wrist. you freeze.

“where d’you think you’re going, sweetheart?”

“you think sucking us off gets you free booze?” toji’s voice is low, dangerous. “that was just a start, sweetheart. buying alcohol for some underage brat’s a whole-ass crime.”

“yeah,” sukuna drawls, leaning in close, breath hot against your cheek. “you want us to break the law for your thirsty little ass? gonna have to do a whole lot more than slobber on some cock.”

“what—?” you breathe.

“if we’re doing felonies today,” toji growls, “we’re getting our money’s worth.”

“we’ll just fuck you ‘til your brain leaks out your pussy,” sukuna adds, grinning sharp. “sound fair?”

they throw you in the back of the truck like a toy.

the truckbed is hot. greasy. lined with tarp and god knows what else. they don’t waste time — toji pins your legs open, fingers you fast and rough, gets you slick while sukuna strokes himself behind you.

“feel how wet she is,” toji mutters. “drippin’ like she’s beggin’ for it.”

“you ever done this before?” sukuna asks, spitting in his hand, spreading it over his cock.

your head’s spinning. you think you nod. maybe.

“she’ll take it,” toji says, voice rough. “she’s just a little hole for us now.”

they both line up.

and then they’re inside.

you scream.

one in your pussy. one in your ass. your body burns — stretched wide, filled to the brim, made to take them both. it’s insane. it’s humiliating. it’s heaven.

they fuck you like they own you.

sukuna’s groaning curses in your ear, fingers wrapped tight around your throat. toji’s gripping your hips, slamming into you like he’s trying to split you in two.

“fucking slut,” sukuna pants. “letting two strangers use every hole. bet you’d let the whole damn truck stop get a turn.”

“bet she’d pay us for another round,” toji growls, slapping your ass hard. “isn’t that right, dumb girl?”

you moan. cry. cum.

it hits you like lightning. back arching. vision going white. your body trembles around them.

they don’t stop.

“inside,” toji snarls. “gonna fill her up, pump her full, fuckin’ breed this used-up little cunt.”

“gonna leave you leaking for hours,” sukuna hisses. “so full of cum you forget your own fuckin’ name.”

they do.

hot. deep. endless.

you’re dripping with it.

you lay there, fucked out. boneless. ruined.

sukuna pokes your cheek. “still with us?”

toji wipes his cock on your thigh. “she’s probably still dreamin’ about that bottle.”

“...what bottle?” you mumble.

they laugh. bastards.